


The Bear-Man's Daughter

by freshneverfrozen



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Angst, F/M, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 165,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/freshneverfrozen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bear-Man's daughter is many things: woman, wolf, watcher, occasional mute and trickster. For years she has owed the Grey Wizard a favor and fulfilling it leads her to the exploits of Thorin & Co. and ever closer to the heart of a cheeky young dwarf whose fate may not be hers to change; OC/Kili & some Thorin awesomesauce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends in Strange Places

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net. An important note - we will not be jumping straight into smut, or romance for that matter. Think 'slow-mance'. Development between the characters will be emphasized. Thorin and Bilbo will play central parts as well; however, if you're looking for a budding romantic relationship between either of them with my OC, you'll be disappointed. Later, there may be some OC/Bard if you really squint. 
> 
> This fic will be based off of both the book and the movie, however, its events will most likely reflect the book most since that's what I have on hand and am most familiar with. 
> 
> There is a short companion piece to this fic on my profile entiled, "Fathers and Daughters, Bears and Wolves."
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

The old grey wizard sat upon the old grey rock, puffing away grey rings of smoke from his pipe in the sleepy haze of the cool spring morning. For the average passerby, it would have been difficult to determine which of the two figures – the rock or the wizard - was older or even which was greyer. Grizzled and wizened looking as the old wizard was, he seemed quite comfortable and at home upon his stone stool. It would have been hard for anyone's eye to tell where the grey of the man's robes ended and the color of the stone began. Man and rock both bore the nicks and lines that came with the passage of time. Given the slow mobility associated with old age, it likely would have seemed to the everyday person – be they hobbit or man or elf – that neither the wizard nor the rock would be moving any time soon.

Both the rock and the wizard were waiting; the rock for the next gust of wind or deluge of rain that would weather a bit more and the wizard for a woman that would likely be weathered a bit more by the time her journey came to an end. Should she take him up on his offer, of course, that was key. That was why he had called _her_ to meet him at this particular clearing with this particular rock; he had the distinct feeling of certainty that she would indeed indulge him in this request. Gandalf the Grey was not a man wont to force others into doing as he wished but, to be perfectly and unabashedly honest, he rather had a penchant for convincing those whose aid he needed to convince themselves to give said aid.

A few more gusts of wind and puffs from his pipe as the minutes ticked by and the wizard Gandalf soon heard the first signs of the woman he sought. The padding of feet atop leaves announced the visitor's presence behind him and Gandalf turned about on his rock to get a better look at the girl he had not seen in…well, he supposed it had likely been a decade or two. Sure enough, he spotted her shadowed figure wavering in the tree line. She stood beside an ancient oak, one fair hand splayed out against its smooth bark.

"And so she approaches on two feet rather than four," Gandalf called, not yet rising from his stone perch.

From the shadows of the great oak, the young woman regarded her old friend thoughtfully for a moment before stepping forward. Her approach brought warmth to the little forest clearing that lay just south of the rolling hills of Hobbiton and the Shire. Where the morning had been breezy and dim, it seemed to brighten as the little woman came nearer. Unlike the elven kind that lived to the east, this woman did not carry with her great bearing of person nor beauty that served to trick the eye into seeing something greater than what was actually there. Instead, the genuine warmth of her nature seemed to stretch out around her. Her presence in the clearing made the birds sing a little louder and sun shine a little brighter. The birds and trees were all mere coincidence, of course, but for Gandalf it was a happy coincidence nonetheless. The woman did not truly affect the natural world around her; she simply existed peacefully within it much the same way as a daffodil exists in a patch of clover.

From beneath the brim of his pointy wizard's hat, Gandalf beamed at her. "Orla, daughter of Beorn! It does my old heart good to see you again, my dear!"

An equally broad grin spread across the young woman's face as she sped up her pace to hurry to stand in front of the wizard. He finally stood just as she reached him, old bones creaking as he did so. Flinging her arms out to grip his bony shoulders, Orla clasp him tight. A woman of few words, she said nothing by way of greeting to her friend but Gandalf paid it no mind. Such was her nature, he knew. Releasing him and standing back, the girl raised her eyes all the way up the near foot and a half of difference in height to meet Gandalf's fond gaze.

The wizard took a moment to look at her, pleased as punch to know that she was well. Life in the wilderness suited her. The mass of unruly golden curls atop her head shown in the emerging sun like dwarven gold. Though she did not possess the petite, chiseled features of the elves or even the fair, unblemished skin of the Rohirrim, she was a lovely enough sight for Gandalf's weary eyes. Small, close-sit eyes framed by too-pale lashes sat above a child's upturned button nose and a mouth that was a bit too wide for the rest of her features. She was pretty in the way young doe is; plain at a glance but rather enchanting the longer one looked at her.

"I had thought to look for a beast but here you are! On two legs just as I last saw you!" Gandalf chuckled and patted young Orla's arms.

The cheeky thing winked at him, as if to say that she would be more than happy to remedy the two-leggedness should he ask it of her. Unbeknownst to few other than Gandalf, Orla, daughter of Beorn the Bear-man, took after her father in that respect. Slipping her arm through his, Orla tugged him back down to the rock he had earlier been seated on. The wide, flat stone was large enough for the both of them to have a seat and they did so. Orla folded her legs beneath herself to politely give Gandalf the most room.

Knowing that despite the girl's cheerful smile, he would not likely be able to coax much conversation out of her, Gandalf deemed it suitable to set right into business. "I have a favor to ask of you, Orla dear," Gandalf explained. A single gnarled hand was placed upon her knee and Orla eyed it with thinly veiled amusement. She knew exactly why he had sent for her.

_Hurry it up,_ her eyes seemed to tease, _I've flowers to pick and fields to skip through._ The look was all in good humor, naturally. In all his many, many, many years, Gandalf had rarely met a being from any race that was possessed of eyes as expressive as this young woman's. A single glance or narrowed glare could convey a world of information to a complete stranger that may be utterly unaccustomed to her looks and ways.

"In a hurry are you?" Gandalf chuckled and shook his head. "Very well, very well! I shant avoid the subject a single moment longer."

Orla grinned at him appreciatively and patted his hand as a granddaughter would.

"I have arranged an…expedition of sorts. It shall be a company of fourteen. Thirteen dwarves and a single hobbit." At the mention of a hobbit, Orla tilted her head curiously, sending a mass of curls into her face. Gandalf was certain she was familiar with the little creatures and knew quite well that they thoroughly disliked adventures. Distaste for questing aside, they were about as close to nature as she was, tucked away in their little hobbit holes as they were. Flitting from wood to wood as she did, the wizard figured she must have encountered a few of the miniature beings in her travels.

Undaunted, Gandalf went on, "The company led by Thorin Oakenshield has departed the Shire and is bound for Bywater by noon today. I'll be rejoining their company there at the Green Dragon Inn." Up and down Orla's fair had bobbed in recognition of the establishment's name. "They'll be in some danger until I can steer them toward Lord Elrond and his elves in Rivendell –"

_Ah ha!_ Orla's eyebrows rose and she snapped her fingers at the wizard. _And you want me to follow them?_ Her face skewed with skepticism, twisting her features into a comic mask of curiosity and uncertainty. Her mouth pursed and she frowned. _Really, old man?_

The wizard chuckled heartily once more and raised his hands in peace. "It is a lot to ask of you, I know. But I fear that I cannot always be with the dwarves and they shall be in desperate need of guidance before long."

Orla smirked and a humored snort escaped her. It was a noise suited for any one of Thorin and Co. In that single sound, Gandalf heard all of the following: _Of course they will! They're dwarves._

"You need not expose yourself should you deem it unnecessary. I will help them for as long as I can. And you can merely..."

_Watch?_ Once more an eyebrow quirked up and, with wide eyes and a grin, Orla shook her head.

"Well! It's what you do best is it not? Besides hunting and tracking and fishing and building campfires and turning into spirits know what when the sun goes down?" He recited his list with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile that was meant to sway the young woman.

Waving her hands at him, she seemed to concede.

Serious once more, the grey wizard asked, "May I count on you as far as the Last Homely House?"

His wizened eyes read the girl's final question in her eyes. The misty grey orbs of her eyes narrowed as her youthful brow set to furrowing as she met and held his ancient gaze.

"They are good people," Gandalf assured her quietly, answering her unspoken query.

She quirked a single brow, an expression which sent a row of fine golden hairs halfway up to her hairline. _Truly?_ she seemed to ask.

The wizard nodded and at once the young woman's expression settled once again. She was satisfied. For one to understand how such a simple statement could convince her to commit to such a complicated task, one would have to first understand both the wizard and the young woman whom he addressed. Being that neither of the two were to be easily understood, it was a most fortunate thing for them both that no one was around to question the agreement that passed between them.

"I will do this," the woman said quietly, "for you, Gandalf…my friend." The words were the first she had said to him in many years and only upon hearing them was he reminded that she did indeed possess the ability to speak.

Gandalf smiled a big toothy smile that caused the wrinkled skin of his face to pull back, making him look a few merry centuries younger.

"Good! Good!" With a groan born of old age, the grey wizard stood, pressing his weight against the staff that rested in his hand. "Accompany an old man to Bywater, would you please?"

Orla nodded just once and waved her hand to gesture that he should move ahead. His current goal met, Gandalf was all too happy to proceed. "Off we go!" He called loudly, his words not faltering with the rush of air that suddenly gusted from behind him. He felt no need to turn and look back at the young woman he had been conversing with moments earlier. Indeed, if he had, he would have found that the woman was no longer there and instead at his side trotted a sleek, tawny-colored timber wolf with eyes as grey as his robes and the rock he had just been seated upon.

.

* * *

.

"I knew you'd come along, you know." The dwarf leaned conspiratorially closer to the little hobbit as he helped the shorter man saddle his pack to the little mare.

Bilbo Baggins frowned, an expression that was mostly hidden by the light brown mop of hair atop his head. He craned his body away from the dwarf – Fili or Kili, he couldn't be sure – and said, "Did you, now?"

"Aye! Got the look of an adventurer about you, Mr. Boggins."

"Don't let him lie to you, Bilbo," without warning the other brother appeared, startling the poor hobbit half out of his skin, "You look like a burglar to be sure!"

The look on the hobbit's face soon transcended from a mere frown to an outright scowl at the second dwarf's joke.

"I am decidedly _not_ a burglar!" Bilbo objected. With a huff he swatted one of the dwarves away from his pony's pack. The dwarf, who turned out to be Kili, chuckled heartily and stepped away from the now secure saddle pack.

"Fili's only having a laugh. Don't mind him." A firm hand came down on Bilbo's shoulder and gave it squeeze and the hobbit was forced to look up at the young dwarf archer.

"Don't mind me?" Fili feigned offence, pressing his hand to his chest in mock injury. "What of you?" the elder brother demanded.

"Me? I'm charming."

Of all the dwarves in Thorin Oakenshield's mighty company, Kili was the youngest and his good natured demeanor shown as brightly as the rest of his persona. Unlike some of the other dwarves, namely Dwalin and Thorin, the two brothers had not yet been hardened by battle and war. For the most part, Bilbo found the two of them to be tolerable, helpful even - sometimes.

Barking laughter erupted from the fair-haired brother's lips. "Charming? _Charming_? I believe Mr. Baggins would disagree most fervently, aye, Mr. Baggins?"

But Mr. Baggins had already gone. Slipping from between the bickering siblings, he disappeared amidst the rest of the company before another word could be said to him.

"Hey, you scared off our burglar!" Kili popped his brother roughly across the arm.

"I thought you said he was an adventurer, not a burglar," Fili retorted, massaging the offended arm with his other hand.

Kili opened his mouth to respond but quickly closed it again when a third figure appeared at the brothers' sides.

"Done bickering like old maids?" Their uncle asked. There was an unspoken threat in the leader's voice, one that promised both of the young dwarves that if they did not immediately cease and desist their banter then they would spend the next week on look out duty. Both brothers nodded wordlessly in response, locking their handsome jaws without another word. "Good," Thorin growled, "then finish up with the ponies. We're leaving soon." With that, off Thorin stomped once more to dictate his law to the rest of the unfortunates.

Despite semi-popular opinion, Kili was no fool and waited until Thorin was a fair distance away before he whirled back around to face his brother. " _Leaving soon?"_ he mouthed silently at his brother who shrugged in response.

Fili's response was equally quiet. " _Gandalf must be back_."

Kili nodded and with one more curious look at his older brother, turned to do as he was told.

.

* * *

.

"Gandalf," Thorin's voice rang out among the hustle and bustle of the packing dwarves, full of authority, piss and vinegar, "You've returned." Regardless of his terseness, he really was glad to see the old wizard. Thorin did not much feel like babysitting a homesick hobbit without him.

The wizard greeted the dwarf prince with a slight bob of his head. His tattered grey hat, which Thorin suspected was as old as its wearer, pitched forward precariously but never quite slid off; the longevity of the hat's existence atop the wizard's head was one of the few observations that never ceased to amaze Thorin Oakenshield even in the long time the two had known each other.

The two companions were standing in front of the Green Dragon Inn of Bywater; Gandalf had only just arrived. At Thorin's back, the inn lulled in the midmorning slump of business, its tall chimney pumping out a steady stack of smoke from the inner kitchens. The smell of roast mutton and seasoned chicken filled the air but the dwarves paid it little mind, having had their fill of meat not an hour earlier as they waited for the return of the wizard. The town of Bywater lay just beyond the bend and was just as quiet as the inn. The lack of activity in Bywater (and its proximity to the home of a certain hobbit) made it a perfect meeting place for the troop of dwarves to ready themselves for the road.

"I assume your friend was well?" Thorin queried. He did not much care for idle conversation but the wizard's various comings and goings intrigued him.

"Begging your pardon?" Gandalf asked none too convincingly.

"You told me you had gone to see an old friend of yours –"

"Ah!" Gandalf exclaimed with a clap of his hands, "Yes, yes! My friend –as you've so labeled her – is preparing for an adventure herself. Or perhaps she has already prepared for it. Hard to tell with the likes of her. Will she need a bed roll or will she sleep on the leaves? Will she eat her vegetables and rolls or munch on venison? Shall she wear a cloak of fur or of cotton? Quite a complicated woman my friend, really."

The wizard did not think he had ever seen Thorin quite so taken aback by a simple reply and he would be the first to admit that he took great pleasure in being the cause of the would-be-king's sudden fluster.

"Oh, confusticate you, old man! I was merely asking a question!"

With a grunt of annoyance, Thorin threw up his hands and turned away from the wizard, chain mail and buckles jingling with oddly musical notes as he did so. In his hurry to stomp away from the grey wizard, he did manage to cool his heels long enough to call back over his shoulder. "We shall be leaving the Green Dragon within the hour. Best you saddle your horse lest you trail behind us the whole way!"

Under his breath, the old trickster replied, "No, I believe I shall leave the trailing to her."

"What?" called Thorin once more, having not quite heard the other man's words. Puzzled and more than a little suspicious, Thorin's dark blue gaze narrowed to pinpricks against Gandalf.

"Nothing, nothing at all!" And with those parting words, the wizard grinned beneath his great grey beard and cast a fleeting glance at the line of woods beyond the tavern.


	2. It's Raining Trolls

The first few nights of the journey after leaving Bywater were uneventful. The days passed slowly with the sun coming and going a dozen times over as the company headed east toward the Misty Mountains. The Shire was left behind them and the distance between Bilbo and his little hobbit hole grew ever wider. The rolling green hills of Hobbiton and its surrounding meadows quickly gave way to the thick woods and craggy rocks that bordered the plains.

Luckily for the hobbit and the ponies both, Thorin pushed his dwarves at a pace that allowed them to cover much ground without becoming too tiresome. All the while, behind the group of fourteen trailed one more. This fifteenth presence remained unseen and nearly unheard, save for once when Bilbo's sharp hearing picked up the barely-there trot of paws. He mentioned this to one of the older dwarves, Balin, who quickly attributed the noise to a wolf or forest creature of some sort. Poor Bilbo had a fright at that, yelping loudly enough to cause all of the company to turn and eye him with varying degrees of amusement and annoyance.

"Wolves? Is that what you told our dear burglar, Balin?" Fili called from some distance ahead of Balin and Bilbo.

"A wolf," the old dwarf corrected, " _One_. Maybe."

From his place beside Thorin, Fili's brother turned and grinned at the hobbit riding a few ponies away. "Wolves often prey on the weakest, you know."

"I have heard that is the case –" began Bilbo, only he was quieted when an exasperated Balin placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The old dwarf gave a silent shake of his head and Bilbo's mouth clamped shut tighter than the magic dwarven doors of Erebor.

Instead it was Bofur, who was perhaps the friendliest of the dwarves, who responded to Kili's comment for the hobbit. "Oh, dear!" he crowed dramatically, "That is terrible news for you indeed, Kili!"

That shot silenced the youngest dwarf somewhat and he turned back around on his pony, red-faced with his ears burning. Bilbo offered Bofur an appreciative glance, careful, however, not to make it too friendly. Truth be told, Bilbo was not in an overly friendly sort of mood at the moment. He _had_ forgotten all his handkerchiefs, after all.

While all this went on around him, Gandalf the Grey was content to remain silent. He, of course, knew of the wolf that was following the company and he knew that really the animal was not a wolf at all and meant none of the travelers any harm. Even Thorin seemed unconcerned. Given all that the dwarf prince had seen, a lone wolf was not anything for him to get excited over. Regardless, in an effort to placate the nervous hobbit, Thorin ordered Kili to ride back and keep an eye on the little burglar, if only for the sake of keeping him quiet while they traveled. Fouler things than wolves were about in these woods and it would not do for the halfling to give away their party with his squeaking and squawking. Gandalf, who rode beside the expedition's leader, kept quiet about the beast that followed them, confident that if anything truly nasty did come their way then they would at least get a howl of warning.

.

* * *

.

Following the dwarves was entertaining at the very least. Their pace was not such that the wolf could not keep up and their antics actually instilled in her the desire to do so. In the years since she left her father's house near the borders of Mirkwood, she had lived mostly alone, visiting towns and villages only so often, and the wolf-woman would have been the first to admit that the dwarves were a nice change of pace from solitude. A little one rode among them, which she knew to be the hobbit of whom Gandalf had spoken. The others teased him like the runt of the litter, harassment that was not necessarily unfounded, and the wolf quickly decided that if anyone in the company should need protecting it would almost certainly be him.

The alpha, whom the wolf guessed to be Thorin Oakenshield, seemed as if he would do what he could to keep the others safe. Despite the huff and puff of some of the other dwarves, Thorin proved to be quiet most of the time– sometimes even withdrawn. He was a little coarse when he did actually speak and he growled a lot but then so did the wolf's father, so Thorin's nature hardly phased her at all. It appeared to the wolf that his mind was elsewhere, as if he thought of some place faraway from these local forests. As with nearly everyone in the current age, the wolf had heard of how the Kingdom Under the Mountain had been taken by Smaug after the destruction of Dale. She supposed that Thorin, more than anyone, had a right to his silence. That silence however, gave him opportunity to remain alert; he seemed as sharp as he was strong and despite her best efforts, his dark blue eyes nearly spotted the wolf more often than she would have liked, forcing her to slink further into the woods.

After more than a week of having to trod on all fours, the woman's muscles began to ache within the wolf's skin. For a while it felt as if she would have to follow the group on two feet. The decision to do so meant that her senses would be lessened but that was no great loss. The forests in these parts were relatively safe with the exception of one or two wondering orcs and wild wolves. If anything, she would be the one in danger, not the dwarves, while she walked on two legs. She was unarmed and even if she had a sword or dagger, it likely would do her little good. She had no skill with a blade besides that which was required for skinning animals. When available, a bow was her weapon of choice. Only one of the dwarves carried such a weapon from what she could see and she did not much fancy stealing it from him. Eventually, the decision to remain in her animal form seemed like the only viable choice and, with hardly more than a whine, she resigned herself to follow the dwarves a bit longer.

A day or so later, the wind picked up. It blustered through the trees with unusual ferocity for spring weather. Pine needles and oak leaves alike blew from the tree tops and into the faces of the travelers, forcing them all, even the wolf, to close their eyes against the force. Carried on the wind was the scent of rain. It was a heavy smell, one wet with moisture from the gathering clouds overhead.

It would hardly do the dwarves or her any good to be caught in the quickly approaching deluge. The human part of the wolf desperately wanted to find a crevice or stump to take shelter under but it seemed that neither could be found. Fifty or so yards away, she heard one dwarf call out over the steadily increasing wind.

"Thorin! We need to take shelter. The bottom's about to fall out."

With a huff too quiet for any of the company to hear, the wolf seconded the suggestion.

"We keep moving!" responded Thorin, his deep baritone carrying far without having to be raised.

Two similarly pitched groans echoed after the lead dwarf's decree and the wolf suspected it was the young brothers who dared make the sounds. Had she at the moment vocal chords capable of repeating the noise, she probably would have done the same.

"It's not far to an abandoned farmhouse I happen to know of. I will lead you there." The voice was Gandalf's, the wolf realized. She knew of the place he spoke of and knew that she could make it there within the hour if she hurried. It would be possible to head the dwarves off there _and_ get out of the rain. Surely, she hoped, they would be fine in the meantime.

For the moment, it was a sound enough plan.

.

* * *

.

"Light the damned fire, Oin!"

"The wood and tender are soaked through to the core! How, pray tell, am I to light it?"

"With fire, you swit!"

"If I had fire to light it with, Gloin, I wouldn't be having this problem to begin with, would I, you rock head?"

For nearly an hour, Gloin and Oin had been arguing back and forth over how best to light the fire, if it could even be lit at all, and neither of the two dwarves had made any progress in accomplishing their task. It had not been long since Thorin had called the company to a halt so that camp could be made. Gandalf's idea to travel on towards the old farmhouse fell through once the rain came to be accompanied by lightening. "Change the weather," the dwarves pleaded repeatedly but the wizard would do no such thing. Tired of their water-drenched whining, both he and Thorin had decided it was best to just hunker down for the night beneath the canopy of trees.

Meanwhile, cousins Bofur and Bifur had set to work setting up a makeshift cover with blankets hung between the trees. Dori, Ori, and Nori took it on themselves to prepare dinner, only to be disappointed when it was realized that there would be no fire tonight (failure courtesy of Gloin and Oin, naturally). Poor, fat Bombur sat atop a stump, disheartened with the whole ordeal. Fili and Kili kept near the ponies and away from Thorin and Balin, who had both threatened to kill them painfully if they did not stop the incessant bickering that had started once the rain came down.

Only Dwalin sat near the hobbit. To his credit, Bilbo only complained once or twice before resigning himself to a chilly, uncomfortable night. Wordlessly, Dwalin, the largest and possibly the most cantankerous of all the dwarves, tugged a dark green bundle from his rucksack and shoved it at the hobbit. Bilbo accepted what the dwarf offered and unraveled it only to find that it was a spare cloak and hood that Dwalin had packed.

"Thank you," Bilbo told Dwalin quietly, pulling the cloak up around his shoulders, too surprised by the show of kindness to really say much else.

As expected, Dwalin waved him off without another word before clomping off through the mud to pry Oin and Gloin apart, their fire-ignited feud having finally come to blows. Nearby, Thorin and Gandalf were arguing about what course to take and whether or not it should be bound for the direction of Rivendell. Unsurprisingly, Thorin's feelings on the matter were strongly negative. In a fit, Gandalf tossed his hands into the air before disappearing through a thicket of trees and bushes. Bilbo watched him go until the tip of the wizard's tall had hat disappeared from sight entirely.

"Where's he going?" The hobbit looked up to see Fili standing beside him, his eyes turned to watch the wizard's exit from camp.

Bilbo explained, "He and Thorin…exchanged words."

Where one brother went, the other was not far behind and a moment later Kili appeared at Bilbo's elbow, saying, "Why, that's a delicate way to put it. Uncle Thorin 'exchanges words' with everybody."

"Well, it happened all the same, now didn't it?"

"Now, now, master hobbit, we're just curious," Kili replied defensively, "You know the wizard better than we."

Sighing, Bilbo shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm just tired, that's all. Don't mind me." Indeed, if the dark bags under the hobbit's eyes were any indication, he was telling the truth.

Fili, being the gentler of the two brothers, placed a hand on Bilbo's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Kili, on the other hand, chose to send his fingers into the hobbit's wet hair and give it a good ruffle.

"Don't mind you?" the youngest dwarf jested, "If we didn't, we'd have no one to look after!"

"Besides, you're more entertaining than Kili," Fili supplied helpfully, causing Bilbo to groan helplessly between the two brothers.

"He is not!" objected Kili with an affronted scowl.

"He is! I would know."

"Don't the both of you have ponies to watch?" Bilbo asked in desperation. He tried his best to hide his eyes for he knew they would reveal every bit of frustration he felt.

"An apt point, Mr. Baggins! Let's get to it. Come along, little brother." With that, Fili grabbed his brother by the arm and hauled him off in the direction of the ponies.

.

* * *

.

The night became neither dryer nor warmer as it progressed and the dwarves' groaning and moaning became ever louder as their misery grew. For once, Fili and Kili were happy to have look out duty, which put them some distance away from the bellyaching. They both sat under a wide tree, happy to let its branches catch most of the rain. Before them, twelve ponies munched away at their feedbags. It did not occur to either brother initially that _twelve_ ponies was not the correct number of ponies at all.

As was his nature, being the youngest, Kili could only entertain himself for so long. When his whittling began to bore him and he had run out of songs to hum, he inevitably turned to his brother for conversation.

"Brother?"

Fili did not bother to look at him, too busy pretending to count the leaves in the trees. "Yes, Kili?'

"What do you think of the halfling?"

"I think he's a decent fellow, Kili, if not cut from our sort of cloth."

"I like him," Kili declared with a firm nod of his head. The way he said it made it sound as if he was speaking more to himself than Fili.

"You like everyone, little brother."

To that, Kili found that he had little to say. Being so young and inexperienced by dwarven standards meant that he had not yet acquired the suspicion that was natural with their race. Unlike his uncle, Kili did not have a natural hatred of elves and neither did his brother. Likewise, they both enjoyed slaying orcs and goblins for sport but neither of them truly _hated_ the twisted beings with the burning passion of Thorin or Dwalin or even old Balin. They had not been made to suffer as the others had with the siege of Erebor and had lived relatively privileged lives up until this point; Thorin had seen to that, at least.

Thinking of another question quickly, as was his way, Kili asked, "What of the wizard?"

Fili grinned and replied, "Gandalf? Now, him I like. Anyone with steel enough to stand up to Uncle the way he does is a man to be admired."

"Good. I like him, too." Kili quickly added, "Even if he does disappear. A lot." Frowning at the thought of the wizard's most recent disappearance, Kili tossed away the little twig he had been whittling away at.

He was just about to ask another question when he caught a glimpse of something in the woods beyond. Though dwarves' eyes were not known to be as keen as those of elves, or even hobbits, Kili was quick to spot the odd little glow that spilled out between the tree trunks. Silently, he stood, pushing himself up from the base of the old tree, and reached for the bow at his back.

"Do you see that, Fili?" he asked in a whisper. Behind him, his brother stood but by then Kili had already moved forward several feet. "Is that a fire?" His dark eyes narrowed in an effort to better focus on the glowing patch of light.

Fili was just about to answer him when suddenly a different, much less quiet voice rang out behind them. Both brothers whirled about, tucking their drawn weapons inconspicuously behind their backs.

"Bilbo!"

The hobbit coughed uncomfortably and shifted his large feet about as he searched for his words. "Bombor sent me with dinner for you both. It's stew. Cold, leftover stew because there's no fire but…stew just the same."

Fili glanced at Kili and Kili back at him, both realizing simultaneously that this was a _burglar_ standing before them, after all.

"Mr. Boggins –"

"Bilbo –"

Both began to speak and each one grabbed an elbow as they maneuvered the hobbit over to a nearby log. They crouched down and urged poor Bilbo to do the same despite his armful of stew.

"Take the stew, would you please – wait, where are the ponies?" Bilbo asked all of the sudden. The food was suddenly forgotten, which was quite a remarkable feat in and of itself for a hobbit.

"Ponies?" Fili and Kili asked. At once their handsome heads turned in the direction of the makeshift corral.

Eyes widening at the sight before him, Fili hissed, "They're gone!"

With an alarmed gasp that any well-to-do hobbitwoman attending Sunday tea would be proud of, Bilbo exclaimed, "Myrtle!" Collecting himself under the scrutiny of two dwarves whose eyebrows had risen into their hairlines at his sound, he asked, "Did they wander off, you think?"

"I doubt it," Kili responded, "Let's have a look." With no warning, he and Fili hoisted Bilbo up and over the log and urged him forward. He made to look back at them in horror but was somewhat relieved when he realized that they did actually intend to follow him. The three crept forward a few yards until Fili quietly called them all to a halt.

"Trolls!" He ground out the word, his teeth clinched at the sight of the vile creatures that had dared steal the ponies he had been trusted to watch.

Kili, who was looking rather excited about the development, gripped Bilbo by his collar and shoved him forward. "Go have a quick look, burglar –"

"But you said I was adventurer!" Bilbo interrupted with a squeak.

"You're an adventurous burglar! Now go have a quick look and come back. If you can. And if you can't, hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a screech owl and we'll come running."

With language that was rather strong in hobbit terms, Bilbo turned to go forward, leaving Fili and Kili to watch after him.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" Kili asked when the halfling had moved up far enough.

Shaking his head, Fili slapped a brotherly hand across Kili's back. "Best you have your bow at the ready."


	3. Really, He Meant Well

The wolf awoke the following morning, dry but not quite warm. She had taken refuge under the timbers of the farmhouse's burned down shed. Light was just beginning to peak over the tree tops to mark the break of a new, hopefully rain free day. With a whining stretch, she shook out her bones, satisfied with the _pop-pop_ of her joints. It was only then that she sniffed the air…and found it alarmingly devoid of any smells - dwarf, wizard, or hobbit. Had they not made it to the farm house? With a worried whimper, she slinked out from beneath the charred timbers to find that there was hardly a sign of any travelers to be found, much less dwarf travelers.

Surely, she could not have failed so miserably in her task for the wizard already. They had not even made it to Rivendell and so far she had given little to no guidance as Gandalf had asked her to. Panicked, the wolf bounced around the farmhouse foundations and the surrounding yard, sniffing at the grass. Even if the dwarves had been there during the night – and she seriously doubted that they had since she had not heard them – the rain had already washed away any scent and she could not hope to follow a trail where there was none.

All was not lost, however. In her early days of hunting the land, she had once shot a deer and the arrow had struck it low. The wounded, gut-shot animal had managed to scramble away and further into the forest just as rain began pouring down. It had washed away any sign of blood and tracks that she could have followed and, in a desperate effort to end the animal's misery, she had been forced to track without aid of her animal senses. Following the trail she had suspected the animal to have taken, along with broken branches and crushed bushes, she had rather quickly found the deer once more.

As far as she knew, the last place she had seen the dwarves was no more than five miles to the west. If they had decided not to make for the farmhouse, then they most likely were still camped in the thick of the woods, which would have provided the most cover from the downpour. Sitting off at a quick lope, the wolf hurried through the woods she knew so well. If something other than inclement weather had stopped the dwarves' arrival then she had little to no time to waste lest she risk breaking her promise to the Grey Wizard. And upsetting Gandalf the Grey was most certainly not on her list of things to do for the day.

.

* * *

.

Trolls. She could smell their stench half a mile away despite the effects of the rain. The run to retrace her steps had been difficult and her sides were heaving as a result, the tawny coated muscles billowing out as she continued to move along. It would not be much further before she discovered whether or not she was too late.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the wolf burst into a tiny clearing that was just big enough to contain the three distinctively stony trolls that now adorned it. She paced the camp and was enormously pleased to discover that there were no dwarf bodies or dwarf bones to be found. But, she realized, that also meant that sooner or later she would have to explain her absence in this time of crisis to Gandalf and somehow she doubted she would get away from _that_ conversation with only a few meaningful glances.

Still, there was no time for her to stop yet. The dwarves were still nowhere to be found but, by the grace of the spirits, this time there were footprints for her to follow. From what she could tell, they were relatively fresh; the mud that they were encased in had yet to dry in the morning sun. Huffing once more to gather her breath, the wolf continued her search, determined to find the dwarves again before some sort of disaster befell them once more.

.

* * *

.

With the troll camp not far behind them, the dwarves hurriedly made for the edge of the Trollshaws, heading toward the River Bruinen. Thorin was guiding them toward a place in the river that was widely known as the Ford, where they would hopefully be able to do just that in order to get across. Fording rivers was dangerous enough for Men folk and elves but for the shorter races of Middle Earth it could get downright hairy.

"Is there no other way around, Gandalf?" Thorin asked when the wizard came to stand at his side.

"No, I'm afraid. This is where the river is narrowest and shallowest. If you plan on continuing toward the Misty Mountains, you'll have to cross here. Unless you want to risk the rapids, of course. If you do, then, please, by all means continue on your merry way."

"You, old man, are no help at all."

"I'm plenty of help and so is my burglar!" Gandalf stared down his long nose at the dwarf prince, his bushy grey eyebrows tugging together into a frighteningly straight line that rather resembled some sort of shaggy haired creature having been stretched over his eyes.

Thorin scowled. "Still on about the trolls are you?"

"I should like to point out that you got a rather nice sword out of the whole business, so I don't see why you're complaining, Thorin, son of Thrain."

By this point, Thorin was looking a bit beyond indignant, just enough so that his cheeks had reddened beneath his unshaven beard.

"What," he growled, "took you so long?"

To his query, Gandalf said nothing. Thorin tried again, doing his able best to calm himself. "Where did you go, _if I may ask_?"

The wizard's reply was simple. "To look ahead."

"And what brought you back?"

"Looking behind."

"I…" Thorin found that his frustration had left him. Gandalf's answer had – surprisingly - placated him. He had heard more in that simple answer than most would have. Instead, he bowed his head slightly and said, "Thank you."

.

* * *

.

The River Bruinen stretched before Thorin and Company, as daunting as any challenge they had yet faced. Even the trolls the night before had only been slightly more terrifying. While the river could not roast the dwarves upon spit and threaten to eat them for dinner, its current could very well sweep them away to never be heard from again. Supplies and ponies could easily be lost in the rush of water while they tried to cross, not to mention to mention the potential for calamity when clumsy hobbits and headstrong young dwarves were taken into account.

"Cheer up, Bilbo! This'll be fun!" Kili was grinning like a madman at the prospect of braving the river and for some inexplicable reason he felt that Bilbo should be doing the same.

Bilbo did not look so convinced. "I've never done this before. We have no big, swift rivers in Hobbiton, just little creeks and streams and even those are covered by bridges. A hobbit doesn't even have to get his feet wet to cross them if he doesn't want to." Both of his little hands went into his hair to pull at the light brown curls in anticipation.

"Fili won't let you fall in," promised Kili, "You can sit on his shoulders."

This seemed like news to Fili because his blond head popped up in alarm from beside Myrtle the pack pony.

"I thought dwarves didn't like water," Bilbo stated, having smiled apologetically at Fili, who still looked troubled at the prospect of having to balance a hobbit on his shoulders while wading through chest-deep, quick running water.

"Oh, we only dislike bath water. River water, lake water, and all the other kinds of water are fine," Kili explained teasingly. His brow fell as a thought occurred to him suddenly. "Though I 'spose after last night I don't much like rain water either."

"I'll second that!" Beside them, Bofur had appeared with Bifur at his side. The perpetually cheerful dwarf grinned at Bilbo and gave him a polite nod before turning back to Kili. "Thorin says you're to go last and bring up the rear with Bombur."

"That'll be fine," Kili nodded, "Whatever Thorin wants."

Doubtless, if Thorin had asked Kili to cartwheel through the river's rapids with a bag on his head and an apple in his mouth, the young dwarf probably would have tried it.

Beside his cousin, Bifur grunted in rough ancient dwarvish and pointed at the hobbit. Bofur, while not entirely understanding what Bifur had said, got the gist of the gesture and obligingly voiced his cousin's garbled query in more understandable terms. "He wants to know how the hobbit's getting across."

Nearby, Fili made to speak but Kili beat him to it, much to the older brother's consternation. "Fili's volunteered to carry the halfling across."

"Has he now?" Bofur shook his head, a suspiciously knowing smile playing beneath his great mustache.

"Well, no," Kili admitted, cheeks flushing, "But it'll be fun to watch."

Both Bofur and his cousin chuckled, their laughter coming heartily and from deep in their bellies as it usually did. Shaking their heads at the youngest dwarf, their snickering still coming in bouts, they turned to walk away. Only Bofur paused and turned to wink at the little hobbit, who was looking woefully abused at the moment. "If you or Fili need help, Mr. Baggins, just give a shout. Me or ol' Bifur will come after you."

All too soon, the ponies were readied for the crossing as were the dwarves. Thorin would go first, along with Gandalf, and behind them would follow Fili and Bilbo. The rest of the dwarves would cross two by two with Bombur and Kili bringing up the rear.

At first it all went smoothly. If Thorin feared the water – and no one ever dared say he did – then he made no show of it, wading fearlessly into the strong current and never stopping until he reached the other side. Gandalf was not far behind him and was surprisingly agile for a man of his age, though it was suspected his lack of trouble may or may not have had something to do with his being a wizard. Poor Fili kept his mouth clamped shut and did not voice a single complaint as Bilbo scampered up onto his shoulders. Both performed admirably during the crossing and Thorin told them precisely that as soon as they reached the other side. Dwalin fared well for the water only came halfway up his chest instead of being shoulder level as it was with most of the other dwarves; Balin trailed after him, though his pony nearly pulled the old dwarf under a time or two. Dori, Ori, and Nori came next, all in line, and when Ori was nearly swept under Dori and Nori pulled him up again, sputtering and splashing, and hauled him safely to the other side. Gloin and Oin powered through, although Oin's eye was swollen shut from his spat with Gloin and that made his going somewhat tougher. Bofur's and Bifur's attempt was filled with shouts of Khuzdul which no one dared translate to the little hobbit who stood by watching.

It was not until the end of the crossing that the company had any trouble. Loveable and plump as dear Bombur was, he was not much of a horse handler or a swimmer, so the moment he tried to lead the trembling mare into the water, she snatched the reins right out of hands, leaving him to tumble and roll around at the edge of the water while she bolted forward. She was a weak thing, despite having carried Bombur all the way from Bywater, and the current quickly proved too much for her. It swept her away in a flurry of whinnies and splashing hooves. The supplies – mostly food since it was cook's horse, after all – were knocked free before anyone had a chance to go after them and floated swiftly away, never to be seen again. Kili watched the whole thing unfold and, being the nearest and most foolish, was the first to register what was happening. With a cry, he sprinted down the bank of the river, moving with surprising speed for a dwarf.

On the opposite side, the dwarves that knew him best realized with horror what he was going to do before Kili likely knew it himself. Both Thorin and Fili shouted out, their combined voices ringing over the water to be carried downriver along with the pony. They made for the edge of the river in a flurry of waving arms and bellowing shouts. Thorin's usual bearing was quickly discarded as he stared on in dismay while his youngest nephew sprinted toward the water's edge.

"Stop, Kili! For Durin's sake, let her go!" Fili cried hoarsely, his voice breaking in desperation. He was moving toward the water after Kili, bright eyes wide and pleading, when Thorin caught him by the shirt and held him fast. Fili struggled within his uncle's grip, his voice broken as he yelled out, "Please, little brother! Don't -"

Other than raise their voices in combined cries, there was nothing a single one of the dwarves could do from their side of the river other than shout for Kili to stop and let the mare go. But it did not appear that young, brave, foolish Kili was willing to do such thing and, with the entirety of Thorin and Company watching on, he reached the bend of the river at a point just ahead of the pony and, without hesitation, dove into the rapids after her.

  



	4. As I Lay Him Down to Sleep

It was by shear luck that the wolf came across the dwarf before he had floated past her downriver. She had only just emerged from the wooded Trollshaws when she heard the distant cries of dwarves. Her ears perked up and immediately she realized the danger that had sprung in her absence. She had no sense about her to think of what exactly might be wrong; all she did was sprint at a full run toward the river as fast as her four legs would carry her.

She slid to a halt, paws digging into the damp earth just around the bend in the river from the dwarves. A growl, low and deep, escaped her when she realized she was still out of their sight and could not yet see what had caused their uproar. It was only a moment later that she saw the top of a dwarf's dark head emerge from beneath the swirling rapids. Behind him floated a pony, her pretty equine head bobbing about just as his was, though doing a fair sight better in fighting the water.

They would reach a shallow point soon if the exposed rocks were any indication and the wolf realized that she had only a moment to act before both the pony and the dwarf were swept over the jagged rocks and down river. Water white-capped around the obstructions, racing past with alarming power that was so great neither the dwarf nor the pony could have much hope of avoiding being dashed against them.

The wolf darted toward the rocky shallows where the water whipped around the jagged, jutting stones. There she stepped out, her paws holding well enough against the rock. The dwarf was coming too quickly and at the rate he was going, he would be lucky if he did not first bash into the exposed rocks before she could pull him out. Thankfully, for the mare's sake, it appeared that he had managed to get a grip on the pony's reins.

The wolf braced herself and leaned out as far as she dared amidst the rushing water. Just as the dwarf came upon the rock face, she latched her jaws into his leather coat and, with all her strength, dragged him up out of the water before his body could bear the brunt of the damage from the rocks. Dazed as the dwarf was, his hand impressively never released its hold on the mare's bridle and she caught her footing long enough to force herself up out of the water as well.

Growling at the inconvenience of dragging a soaking wet dwarf - which was noticeably heavier than a dry dwarf - the wolf backed onto the river bank. Once on land, the pony broke free of the dwarf's grasp and trotted away, no worse for the wear. She would be picked up soon enough and, if not, then she would just have to wonder in the Wilds. So long as the pony was safe from the rapids, the wolf did not much care.

She continued to drag the sputtering and coughing dwarf away from the riverbank and up the crest of the nearest hill. There was shelter enough there and she would be able to protect him for the time being until he was back on his feet. She feared that if she left him by the water's edge, the others would come along around the bend and find them there. They would no doubt try to cross the rushing water to save the dwarf from the clutches of the unknown beast and then spirits only knew how many dwarves she would have to fish from the river at that point. No, she decided, the dwarf would be fine and so would his fretting companions. They would just have to worry for a little while.

There was an outcropping of rocks at the far base of the hill and, despite her waning strength, she somehow managed to get the dwarf there. Well, almost there. She had dragged him so far over bumps and brambles that he must have come to his senses because he jerked within her clutches suddenly. She had him by the collar of his coat, her fangs locked fast into the leather. With a cry, the dwarf whipped his head around as best he could to see what was dragging him along and, though while in her wolf form she could not _quite_ be sure of specific emotions, she would have wagered a guess from the expression on the dwarf's face that what he was feeling was very near full-fledged panic. His bleary eyes went wide, the brown irises getting lost in a sea of frightened white.

Again, he cried out, flinging his arms back to strike her. She deepened her snarl, sending it forth from the bottom of her throat in warning, but she did not let go. He could fight all he wanted but as weak as he was, he certainly was not going anywhere.

A few more feet spent tugging at the fighting dwarf and she had him beneath the outcropping of rocks. There would be just enough room for him to stand if he felt like it and the rock wall extended a bit on either side to provide cover from any that might harm them.

Angry, panicked dwarf relatives were not taken into consideration.

The wolf released him at once and bounded around in front of him before he could try to get up. She dared not change back into her human form yet for fear that the sight might well send him into a state of shock given the stress of what he had just gone through. As she popped around him, the dwarf scrambled back against the rock wall with a cry. His dark eyes were shining with something not unlike fear, though the wolf suspected he was too proud to show it outright.

It was only as she looked at him now that she realized he was one of the younger dwarves, the second half of the duo she had found so amusing as she had followed them from Bywater. He appeared even younger than she had originally thought, perhaps only sixty or seventy at the most (though she was no expert in dwarf ages). He was a wild-eyed, handsome thing though he might not remain so for very long should he continue through life with the recklessness he had just displayed.

She thought he might reach for his weapon and, naturally, being the cornered, soggy dwarf he was, he did just that, his hand shooting to his side where his dagger rested. The wolf had anticipated this, however, and she leapt forward and with a well-placed nip, she urged him to drop the dagger. With a yelp, he did as she bid and she retreated as quickly as she could, fearing retaliation.

There, she sat, tucking her tail daintily beneath her as she continued to watch the dwarf. He stared at her, his eyes still wide, though this time it was in disbelief. To her relief, he made no other moves for his dagger.

They had not long been engaged in their staring contest when the wolf's keen eyes spotted a trail of thick red liquid dripping down from the dwarf's temple to his cheek. The blood mingled with the trimmed hair on his face, catching and clotting among the hairs though he made no move to wipe it away. She had the sneaking suspicion that the dwarf had yet to notice the gash at all since he was not moaning and rolling about on the ground as a he should be.

Communicating with intelligent beings while in one's animal form was generally avoided as a rule of thumb among Middle Earth's skin-changers. Unable to speak and unwilling to change form, the wolf whimpered and tossed her nose in the air in the direction of the dwarf's wound. She huffed and scoffed and made every noise she could to try and direct his attention to the wound on his head.

Unsurprisingly - not to mention with a whimper or two of his own - he responded by pressing further against the rock at his back until the leather of his coat protested squeakily in refusal to budge the stone. She whined louder and the dwarf's eyes narrowed, his thick brows knitting together. It was then that he seemed to feel the gash as he winced and drew his hand up to the wound. With careful fingers he poked and prodded blindly at the spot.

The wolf could hardly stand to watch the dwarf's display of useless attention to the injury and she shifted to stand. She lowered her head to the ground, the most nonthreatening thing she could do at the moment, and moved to step forward.

The dwarf was quick to cease his examination of his injury and one hand whipped out to jab a blood-stained finger at her.

"Don't you come any closer!"

His words were spoken through teeth gritted in pain and the wolf whined again but did as he asked. She lay down, this time on her belly with her paws outstretched before her. The dwarf watched her dubiously. Undoubtedly, he was still sitting on pins and needles waiting for her rip his throat out. She supposed he was uncertain whether he should be more concerned about the state of his bashed in skull or the beast that lay at his feet. His concern about the animal in front of him seemed to win out, interestingly enough, because he drew his feet in closer, tucking his knees into his chest.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he asked, "Are you…going to eat me?"

The wolf whined and let her head drop to her paws. She looked up at him through large grey eyes and for a moment the dwarf's fear appeared to lessen. Wiggling her back legs, the wolf inched forward, her paws fishing out for the ugly brown pair of boots in front of her.

"Hey," the dwarf ground out, his voice low with warning. For a moment, the wolf did not move. She merely continued to lay there as the dwarf studied her. His dagger seemed forgotten, thankfully, and the wolf took it as a good sign. Wriggling forward once more, she covered the last of the distance to his feet where she laid a single paw on the top of one of his boots.

He wavered for a moment but finally decided against moving his feet away.

"You pulled me out of the water, didn't you, beast – wait just a moment, I'm talking to a dog." He scowled and tossed his head upon catching himself at the realization. "Oh, nevermind!"

Indignant at his usage of the word "dog," the wolf chuffed unhappily. The young dwarf's dark brows rose and he leaned away, daring to inch a little closer to the mouth of the outcrop. "Can you understand me?"

The wolf took the chance to sit up and when she did, the dwarf scrambled to stand, his movements nothing but a blur of unbalanced feet and hands. He was unsuccessful in the endeavor, however, as the wolf feared he would be. She had witnessed the birth of a fawn once and recalled the way the little animal had tottered and swayed about the first time it tried to stand; the sight before her was not too unlike that memory. Both had been equally humorous to her though this one proved to be edged with more worry for the dwarf than she had felt for the fawn. He teetered on his legs, hands going to his head to brace himself against the too-light feeling that came from the loss of blood. Not a moment later, he plopped back to the ground, slumped over, and passed out before the wolf could even move to soften his fall.

.

* * *

.

That night at camp, no one said a word. Only Thorin sang; it was a slow, baleful tune with a sound enveloped them all, settling over them like a shroud. The song's drawling cadence was a sorrowful one and each of the twelve remaining dwarves bowed their heads as Thorin's broken baritone filled the night air.

For hours they had searched along the river bank but they found no sign of Kili. They had recovered Bombur's mare but that was hardly worth celebrating, given what they had lost. Fili would say nothing. Not even old Balin could coax a word from the lad; he only sat, his mind and spirit far, far away from the shadows of the Misty Mountains. He had cried out the loudest of them all, even daring to wade out into the river's mighty waters with Thorin at his side until the others pulled them back, refusing to let them cross to the other side.

"He's not over there," Dwalin tried to reason with them both, "He would not have made it out of sight of the riverbank." Thorin, in a bout of grief, had nearly taken a swing at his old friend.

The minutes ticked by beneath the stars and finally Fili stood just as Thorin reached the end of his song.

"He's not dead," the young dwarf proclaimed solemnly, "I would know it if he was."

Without another word, Fili set off toward the bank to resume his search for his brother. Thorin watched him go, his mouth set in a hard line as if it were some sort of barricade meant to hold back any tears that might be welling up behind his eyes. He nodded after Fili but made no immediate motion to follow him. Instead, with a wave of his hand, he motioned for Nori to saddle two of the ponies.

Standing, Thorin said, "We'll keep looking. The rest of you…get some sleep." The normal sternness of his voice had mellowed in the last few hours and the ensuing feelings had left the dwarf prince swathed in a solemnity that was rarely seen even by those who knew him best.

Soon, Nori had the two ponies prepared and Thorin accepted the reins to both, taking one for himself and the other for Fili.

Some distance away from grieving dwarves, Gandalf sat alone with only Bilbo at his side. The hobbit feared that if he opened his mouth he would end up saying the wrong thing all together. This was not teatime with the Sackville-Bagginses or Tooks and the traditional "I'm sorry for your loss" would not be welcome here, not when he had seen the young lad swept away with his own two eyes. As such, manners were forgotten for the time being and Bilbo wisely kept his condolences to himself. Even Gandalf was remarkably silent. Every now and then, Bilbo would glance up and for the briefest of moments he would think he saw the glint of hopefulness in the old wizard's eyes but it would always disappear before the hobbit found the nerve to question it.

.

* * *

.

Orla dared not build a fire for fear of attracting unwanted attention as she watched over the dwarf. She believed his name was Kili, or at least that's what she thought she had heard him called. The sun had not long gone down as she continued to maintain her vigil over him. She had watched the sky fall as it had taken with it the remainder of the day's mild warmth so that the night settled on them a chill. It was yet mid May but the land was so close to the Misty Mountains that it lacked the comfortable warmth of the Shire. Kili had eventually begun to shiver in spite of his unconsciousness and Orla had removed his waterlogged coat to replace it with her own. Not for the first time was she thankful for the fact that those with her gifts did not lose their clothes when they returned to their original forms, contrary to popular belief. Despite that fact, the extent of the mystical clothing magic only extended to her own body and she could do nothing about the fact that her coat was too small for the dwarf; regardless, it covered him well enough to help ease some of the cold he felt.

She had cleaned his wound as well as she was able, tearing cloth from the edges of her shirt in order to bandage the wound. The fine cotton blouse she wore was surely ruined but she did not much mind so long as the bleeding stopped and the dwarf pulled through. How she was going to explain the presence of a woman's coat and bandages to Kili when he awoke, she was not certain. _I most likely won't_ , she thought with a quiet hum to herself. She would just have to change back into a wolf, she decided. The idea did not appeal to her but she had little choice and, for the dwarf's sake, she would resign herself to it.

Sliding away from the wall she had been seated against, she moved to check on Kili once more. He looked well enough considering what he had suffered and as she peeked under the edge of the bandages around his head, Orla found that the bleeding had indeed stopped. She did not immediately pull her hand away and instead let it rest against the dwarf's cheek. Never had she seen a dwarf that was quite so handsome, though she guessed that might be attributed his youth. He did not much look like a dwarf at all, come to think of it, and the observation perplexed her. She caught herself wondering whether or not his beard and nose would continue to grow as the decades went by, until eventually he might look like the rest of his kin. It seemed an awful shame to her; she liked nature and had a deep appreciation of the natural beauty of all things, be they trees, animals, or even dwarves, apparently.

Kili stirred briefly under her touch and Orla quickly drew her hand away for fear of waking him. _Best I stop watching him sleep. I would certainly wake if under such scrutiny._ She thought that if their positions were reversed and she was the one to wake to a stranger staring at her as she slept, it would give her quite a fright.

In the distance, she could hear the calls of his kin as they searched along the river. They sounded so desperate, so very _lost_ , that their cries tugged at her heart, twisting it until she felt that she had done wrong in not delivering Kili to their camp immediately. Despite the unwelcomed feeling, she knew that she had really had no choice in the matter.

' _Twas not_ **my** _fault the dwarf passed out._ Still, she frowned, her pale brows knitting together with the disturbing thought of having caused pain to those who did not deserve it.

She thought about going to river to call out to the dwarves but decided against it after a short amount of deliberation. She had heard rumors of Thorin Oakenshield's 'beat-it-senseless first, ask questions later' approach to strangers and she knew that she did not have the ability to fend off a group of twelve dwarves should Thorin decide that she was deserving of such measures. From what she had seen of him, she doubted he would resort to such tactics but she could not quite convince herself to take that course of action. So, she decided to sit tight for the moment and tune out the sorrowful dwarven voices that carried so clearly through the night air.

A low moan broke through the night air and Orla's head jerked back over her shoulder. Kili wriggled in his sleep, clearly caught somewhere between the blurry line of being aware of his pain and the bliss of unconsciousness. His stout legs kicked out and from the outline of his hands beneath the dark leather of her coat, Orla watched as his fingers clenched and unclenched in pain.

Orla's eyes softened as she watched on as the dwarf struggled in his sleep. She thought to herself, _You're in much pain, aren't you, dwarf?_ No doubt the injury on his head and the bruises on his body were to account for whatever he was feeling. Knowing that she had caused Kili's kin enough suffering this night, she could not very well allow Kili to feel the same.

With a sigh, she stood, pushing up from where her knees bent against the cool ground. She dared not leave Kili unwatched for too long and made up her mind to hurry. Stepping out from under the outcrop, Orla scanned the nearby terrain for any sign of the plant she was looking for, one that would ease the dwarf's ailment and speed his healing. It was a small, grey, weed-like plant that tended to grow throughout the forests and plains of Middle Earth. Athelas, or Kingsfoil as her father had called it, was fairly easy to find and could be counted on as a decent source of healing if one was in a real pinch. She had used it many times on herself during her travels and would know it on sight.

For several minutes, Orla searched, looking within the crevices of rocks and near the bases of the scattered trees that grew nearby. She was about to curse her luck when she happened to feel something soft give beneath her boot. Her eyes shot hopefully to whatever plant lay under her foot and as soon as she saw the little grey buds peeking from under her sole, a toothy grin broke over her face.

Gently, she plucked the plant from the earth and carried back to the outcropping were Kili lay. He was still asleep and the fit he had been having appeared to have quieted, much to Orla's silent delight. With well practiced movements, she set to grinding the Athelas between two rocks until its juices had broken most of the plant fibers into an unsightly grey-green mush. The smell was an unpleasant cross between mint and basil and it wafted up to Orla's sensitive nose so that she had to it hold out away from her as she tugged at Kili's bandages.

_Och!_ She thought with the wrinkling of her nose as she braced herself against the odor, _I had forgotten the smell of Athelas. Like a roast-rub gone horribly wrong. Spirits, dwarf, you best feel better after this!_

She kept her movements gentle, her fingers working carefully to unwrap the bindings around his head. Once he was free of them, she applied the paste to the wound, slathering it on until it had settled against the dwarf's skin. When that had been done, Orla wiped her hands clean against her pants, happy to be rid of the awful smelling plant. She re-wrapped the bandages around Kili's head. As she did so, she allowed his head to rest in her lap, his dark hair spreading over knees like a curtain. It did not escape her as she watched him that the young dwarf did not snore even within the depths of slumber. She had always imagined dwarves to be accomplished sleepers, dosing as loudly as they did soundly. He deserved a rest, Orla supposed, and she scolded herself again for paying him too much attention while he slept. Softly, she slipped her hands beneath his head and lifted it from her knees as she moved away from him. Dawn would be upon them in a few hours and as such it would not be long before she had to shed her human form once again.

With one last curious look at the young dwarf, Orla expelled a heavy breath and turned away from him to settle in the far corner of the outcrop. Had the dwarf been awake and in his right senses, he just might have caught the words she whispered as she turned away.

"May you feel better when the sun rises, master dwarf, for I do not wish for my hide to adorn the back of Thorin Oakenshield any time soon."


	5. Wolves, Princes, and Kings! Oh My!

Kili awoke just after dawn. The early morning sun, with its headache-inducing rosy pink and gold tones, was harsh against his eyes. His head throbbed with a dull but present ache. Too proud to groan aloud, he sat up - albeit slowly, as that was all his bruised body could allow. Before long he felt a stirring at his feet and he looked down to see the wolf from the night before, her brandy colored fur bristling with each breath. Suspicious of his new found companion, Kili wriggled his fingers and toes as if to make certain that the wolf had not nibbled any of the digits off during the night. He realized that he was not irreversibly maimed, much to his relief, and exhaled a baited breath. The noise woke the wolf from her slumber and she sat up with a stretch.

"Still here are you?"

He really had not intended to ask the question aloud but the beast at his feet seemed oddly intelligent, so speaking to her did not seem unforgivably strange. The wolf's head cocked to the side, her ears pricking tall as she did so. _Of course_ , she seemed to say in reply. Well, it was that or ' _I can't understand you, fool',_ which Kili thought was the more likely option.

He pushed himself the rest of the way up so that he was flat on his butt and could see well enough to look around. Feeling the pull of cloth against his temple, his hand instinctively went to his head and as it did, whatever had been covering his body slid from his arms into his lap.

Picking up what he had thought was his own outerwear, he eyed it curiously for a long moment before it occurred to him what it was. _It's a… woman's coat,_ Kili realized with no small amount of alarm.

"By Durin," he crowed accusingly, flinging the covering from his body, "Did you eat a woman and bring me her coat?!"

The wolf leapt to her feet in obvious indignation, nothing but glares and growls, and promptly turned her back on Kili to face the other direction. Kili's reproachful frown softened as he watched her and for some bizarre reason unknown to even his own mind, he found himself having to force away feelings of embarrassment at having offended the beast.

In a voice that some would call timid, the dwarf asked, "Are you…pouting?"

The wolf's head snapped around and those sharp grey eyes of hers pinched together. Yes, Kili realized, the animal _was_ indeed pouting. The creature was strangely attuned to emotion it seemed and the young dwarf felt his initial alarm fading away into genuine, he-really-ought-to-know-better curiosity.

 _An odd creature, isn't she? A beast of 'true and magnificent origin' as Ori would say._ Kili's lips quirked at the thought of what the young scholar would make of the beast. Maybe Ori would be able to explain her if he were here. _I bet even ol' Balin would have something to say about her_. Immediately and without his bidding, Kili's thoughts turned to his brother. Fili was surely out of his mind with worry and would not give too hoots about the wolf; Kili certainly would be if the situation had been reversed.

Groaning at the thought, Kili leaned back onto the hard ground. His hands came up to rub at his eyes and he muttered a string of dwarven curses, the most colorful of which made no sense to the wolf's listening ears.

Poor Fili, always the responsible one. More than once had Kili's older brother pulled his arse out of the fire and not once had he ever complained about doing so, despite Kili's best efforts to conduct repeat performances. Never before had Kili given Fili quite so bad a scare as that which he was surely experiencing now. And his uncle…Kili did not even want to think about what Thorin must be feeling at the thought of losing one of his heirs.

"I have to get back to them," he declared aloud, "They likely won't have gone far."

With a muttered breath to distract himself from the wooziness, he stood, bracing himself against the rock as his legs threatened to give out again. He held his ground, however, and managed the first step he had taken in several hours. He kept one hand against the rough rock face, the stone reassuring beneath his dwarven palm. As he tottered toward the mouth of the outcrop, mumbling each step of the way, the wolf suddenly bounded in front of him. She blocked his path, her eyes drawn together in a strangely human expression of stubbornness, as if she were telling him he was forgetting something.

"What?" Kili grumbled, glaring down at the beast.

She growled back, though not threateningly.

Frustration took root inside him and Kili waved a hand at the animal. Punctuating each word, he shouted, "I. Don't. Speak. Dog."

In the shadows of her eyes, Kili would have sworn she cursed him. Her snout wrinkled to reveal sharp fangs, she seemed to say, _Not one step further or…I'll eat you_. Although that last part might have been Kili's imagination, he halted his shuffling gait all the same.

Satisfied, the wolf stood and trotted off behind him. Kili watched her go and saw her snatch up the mysterious coat that probably belonged to a woman he was still not quite convinced hadn't been devoured sometime during the night. With the leather coat held gently between her jaws, the wolf returned to Kili's side and sat, nudging her snout under his hand.

 _Here, carry this_ , those grey eyes of hers said.

Cursing but unwilling to argue with something that seemed dangerously close to being fed up with his complaints, Kili snatched the coat away from the wolf and laid it across his shoulder for safe keeping.

"Now you've got me carrying some trophy from one of your innocent victims. Some nephew to the king I am."

The wolf only continued to look at him.

"What?" snapped the dwarf, "I'm not wearing it."

Shaking his head, Kili made up his mind to move on. He still needed to find Thorin and his brother and standing there arguing with a dog all day was not going to aid him in doing so. Slow on his feet, he moved toward the mouth of the outcrop and said to the wolf, "Now, don't you try to stop me –" But before he could finish his words, the wolf trotted out ahead of him, easily surpassing his injured gait. "Fine, just fine that," Kili grumbled, "Show off. _Hmph_."

As he turned the corner of the outcrop, the sun's warmth embraced him fully, chasing away the remaining chill he felt as its rays highlighted his bruised face and arms. He glanced down at his fingers and winced. Two or three of his knuckles were black and blue from scrabbling amongst the Bruinen's rocks but the more he wiggled them, the more certain he became that he could still wield his bow. At least, he could if he ever found it again. The weapon was gone; Kili guessed that it must have been swept away when he dove into the water.

The wolf had already disappeared halfway up the hill and it took the dwarf a moment of searching to find her again.

"What? Are you coming, too?" he called after her. He sighed. "Of course, you are. Well, lead on!" He gestured with a wave of his hand.

It took him longer than he would have liked to admit to reach the top of the hill but the wolf waited patiently for him, sitting serenely ahead of him, her grey eyes never straying from his form. When he finally reached the crest, Kili was pleasantly surprised to see that the river he had nearly drowned in was not more than twenty yards away. Rather than cross along the rocky shallows that had nearly been the end of him, Kili followed the wolf further downriver. They traveled for a little over a mile before the rapids emptied out into a more serene branch of the river.

For a long while Kili had wondered why the wolf was leading him this way rather than upriver toward the Ford. Once or twice he thought about going his own way but just as he was about to do so the idea occurred to him that Thorin and the others had likely traveled along the current of the river in search of him. If they were to be found, it would be in this direction. He fervently refused to acknowledge that an animal had thought of this before he had.

At the water's edge the wolf paused and looked back at him.

"I'm still here," he remarked dryly. The soggy wet leather of his coat squeaked as he folded his arms over his chest. "Are you going to –" his voice trailed off as soon as the wolf leapt into the water. With a splash, her head emerged from the Bruinen's crystal depths and off she paddled in the direction of the opposite side. Before long the water became too deep for her paws to touch the bottom and she swam across the expanse of water. Reaching the other side, she dragged herself out and turned at once to face Kili from across the distance.

Kili said not one word of complaint when he realized that he would have to do the same. With a self-resigned sigh, he waded out into the water. He had nearly forgotten the coat that rested on his shoulders and had only caught it from the corner of his eye as it began to float off downriver. Snatching it back up, he pretended not to notice the glare of warning directed at him from the beast.

Though this part of the river was calmer than the place where the company had crossed the day before, it would have been much too deep for ponies loaded down with supplies, otherwise Kili would have made a mental note to tell Thorin of this spot for future reference.

Once again sopping wet, Kili climbed to his feet when he reached the other side and just as he did, the wolf shook out her coat, drops of water and fur flying into his face.

"No!" he moaned in protest but it was too late – the wolf was already jogging away. _The beast did that on purpose!_ It only took a moment for Kili to catch the all too familiar tug of his lips as they pulled back over his teeth. He had forgotten to scowl at the odd animal and was instead grinning amusedly after her. Never let it be said that he could not appreciate a sense of humor even when it came from the most unexpected places.

It seemed as if the pair had walked for half a day, though the placement of the sun in the sky indicated otherwise. Beneath him, Kili's feet were starting to drag, weighed down by his own tiredness and the pain that was slowly returning to his head. He hoped that it would not be much further and yet part of him acknowledged that even if he had to trudge another ten leagues he would not stop until he had found his kin, until he knew that their minds were at ease.

It was not long before the wolf stopped still in her tracks. Her ears twitched and she tilted her head as if to listen. A moment later she turned back to Kili and looked up at him, her eyes revealing more than they should have been able. It was then that Kili heard the ruckus for himself. The loud sound of arguing voices and the clanging of pots and pans drifted over the air and filled his ears as if it were the most beautiful sound in all the world.

Beside him, the wolf whimpered and Kili could not help but look down at her. "Best you go back to where you came from, beast."

But the wolf did not move.

"They might kill you if they see you. My uncle does not take kindly to wolves."

Standing as still as the stone trolls, she did not so much as flinch at his words. Kili frowned at the stubbornness of the animal. She was like Fili in that regard and it seemed that she was by his side until she saw that he was truly safe. Without thinking, Kili reached out to drag his hand across the soft fur of her head, his fingers disappearing beneath the tawny mop. He had never petted a wolf before and doubted he would get the chance again. The beast seemed pleased with this development and she bowed her head low enough for him to rub behind her ears. The action caused Kili to smile despite himself and his desire grew to return the favor of safekeeping that the wolf had shown him.

"I…alright, then. But it's best if you lag behind."

Dragging his hand away from the wolf's head, Kili started up the hill. The wolf did as she was told and waited for him to cover half the distance before she followed silently behind. As Kili crested the hill, his eyes fell gratefully on the sight below him. The thirteen familiar faces of Thorin and Company were spread below. Mr. Baggins was beside Gandalf, fiddling with something in his coat pockets. Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur were kicking dirt over a smoldering fire while Gloin and Oin dismantled the spit that had been over it. Dori, Ori, and Nori were huddled close together along with Dwalin and Balin, their hands flinging out periodically to gesture at the two remaining dwarves of the line of Durin. Thorin and Fili sat alone at the edge of camp, their eyes cast upon the River Bruinen. Fili's head lay in his hands, his fingers drawn back through his mane-like hair. In Thorin's hands lay the familiar shape of Kili's bow. Thorin worked the weapon between his fingers, ghosting over the craftsmanship sadly, treating it as if it was the last reminder he had in the world of his youngest nephew. The look on his family's faces caused Kili's heart to wrench within his chest and he moved forward, ready to put an end to the dwarves' misery.

The pain and exhaustion he had felt earlier was forgotten as his feet carried him swiftly down the hill.

"Uncle! Fili!" he cried, sliding amongst the grassy terrain and rocks.

Thirteen pairs of eyes – fourteen counting Gandalf's – turned to look at him, all wide in bewilderment. Fili shot to his feet, his mouth hung open in disbelief, and beside him Thorin's mask of shock quickly gave way to something Kili had not seen from the man in a long while; he smiled - a bright, joyful grin of relief and reunion.

"Kili!" Fili hurried toward his brother, pushing aside the awestruck dwarves that were in his way. "You're alive! I knew you were!"

Kili met his brother at the bottom of the hill and slung one arm around Fili's angular shoulders for an embrace. He could not quite find the words to speak but was instead content to clasp his brother to him. Thorin and Balin joined them not long after, only to be followed by the other dwarves as they settled on Kili like a swarm of bees.

Thorin's powerful hand came down on Kili's shoulder and squeezed. "I feared I'd lost part of what little family I have left," his eyes softened as he watched his nephew, "I am glad to see that you proved me wrong."

Kili nodded his head at the praise, happy to have it. No doubt Thorin would have his ear later to chastise him for his recklessness but for now Kili was content to take what he could get. His bow was still resting in the dwarf prince's hand and Thorin caught his eyes lingering on it. "Here," he said, holding the weapon out to Kili, "We found this by the river's edge."

Kili accepted the bow with a smile. Its curve fit securely in his hand, the woodwork as familiar as the family around him.

"Are those bandages on your head, laddie? Did ye hurt ye'self?" It was old Balin who spoke, having jostled his way to Kili's side.

Kili's face fell at the observation. He had not thought of where the bandages had come from when he had first noticed them earlier that morning. Quickly, his hand went to his head to tug at the cloth until it slipped from around his head to reveal a gash that had been covered with a sick, grey-green paste. The paste had long since dried, its color fading into the blood of the injury.

"Hold still, boy," Balin instructed as he reached out his hand to touch the wound. Kili resisted the urge to flinch; he would not do so while so close under his uncle's watchful eye. Humming sounds of interest while the other dwarves looked on, Balin scratched a bit of the flaky substance from Kili's face and lifted it to his nose to sniff.

"Kingsfoil?" Balin smelled the paste again and then nodded definitively. "Yes, kingsfoil."

Thorin's brow creased at his old friend's proclamation and he looked to Kili in surprise. "Where did you learn of Kingsfoil, Kili?"

Kili shook his head, still bewildered by the thought that someone other than the wolf had been in the little outcropping with him. "I didn't," he replied quietly.

Thinking of this, he pulled into his hands the woman's coat that lay across his shoulders. Dark brown and worn, the supple leather was pliant beneath his fingers as he eyed the article suspiciously. Someone _had_ been in there with him.

From behind the mass of dwarves, the Grey Wizard cleared his throat loudly and they all spun around to look at him. He eyes were focused solely on the coat in Kili's hands. If he had anything to say, he clearly was not going to share it aloud but Kili could not quite shake the feeling that Gandalf would have a better explanation than anyone else could muster.

He was about to say as much when suddenly he heard Bifur cry out in Khuzdul. Bifur was pointing at something, his bent and crooked index finger extended to direct their attention to a newcomer on the hill behind them.

"Warg!" shouted Oin.

"It's a wolf, you dimrock!" Gloin snapped in response.

Kili whirled about to see that the wolf had finally braved the top of the hill and was standing stock still, frozen in mid-step as she took in the scene below her.

"Kill it!" someone cried and Kili thought that it might have been Ori. He spun around to see that Fili had one of his throwing knives drawn.

With a shout, Kili knocked away his brother's hand before he was able to let loose the knife. "Brother, no!"

From the back of the group, Gandalf seconded Kili's cry. The wizard's voice rang out loud and clear in the air with a stern demand that no one should so much as throw a stone at the approaching wolf.

"All of you stop!" Kili growled. He retreated several steps and extended his hand to beckon the wolf closer. She held fast, her eyes not wavering from the large cluster of uncertain dwarves.

Kili called out to her, "Come here."

"Kili," Thorin snarled in warning but his nephew paid him no heed.

The wolf's head slowly turned in the direction of the company's leader, looking past Kili, and there she held Thorin's dangerous gaze. She met it fearlessly and neither she nor the dwarf prince wavered.

Taking a breath, his gaze still leveled on the strange beast, Thorin seemed to realize what the others had not. "That," he said through clenched teeth, "is no ordinary wolf." Whether he saw in her eyes the same oddly human intelligence that Kili had come to notice, he did not say. But neither did he order for any of their weapons to be lowered. Finally, the wolf turned her eyes from him back to Kili and when she did, Thorin took the opportunity to glance at the hills around him.

Kili saw his uncle's suspicions written across his face and told him, "There are no more, Uncle. She is the only one."

Without waiting for his uncle's consent, Kili strode forward, ignoring the muffled cries of warning from the other dwarves, and made his way over to the waiting animal. She slunk over to his side and allowed him brush his hands through her fur, stroking her neck like he would any house dog. A few yards away, several of the dwarves grumbled in disbelief. Thorin continued to wear his caution like a cloak, his hard eyes never straying from the beast that stood at his nephew's side.

"She pulled me from the river," Kili told them all, "Grabbed me by the collar with her teeth and hauled me out before I made it to the rapids."

Dori was shaking his head disapprovingly. "Wolves are notoriously tricky beasts. Perhaps it is just waiting for you to turn you back."

"She sat with me through the night," Kili argued.

Suddenly the wolf let out a quick, half-barking sound and by the time Kili looked down at her, she had darted away. Around the cluster of dwarves she went, with them all turning en masse as she passed. It took everyone a moment to realize who the wolf was headed for and when they did a flurry of cries went up to warn the Grey Wizard.

Gandalf paid them no mind; indeed, a broad, knowing smile spread over his lips as he gingerly knelt to meet the wolf. She stopped when she reached him and forced her head into the palm of his gnarled hand. _Go on, pet me_. Her demand was obvious for all to see.

Gandalf chuckled and worked his fingers through the thick fur of the wolf's neck and chest.

"I had wondered when I would see you again," he said when the wolf finally stepped away and sat back. All of this was to the bewilderment of the dwarves, even Kili, and they watched with rapt attention as the wizard continued to speak to the beast. "If you don't mind an old man asking…just where were you when these confounded dwarves got themselves into that mess with the trolls?"

The wolf whined and swatted her tale against the ground.

Several startled mumbles went up as Thorin pushed himself to the front of the group.

"You know of this beast, Gandalf?" he demanded, his eyes still hard and cold as they watched the wolf.

"Oh, yes!" Gandalf replied with a laugh, "Though I doubt that she would hardly approve of you calling her a 'beast'."

The dwarf prince made a face at the wizard's words. His brows tugged together and his lips pinched oddly as if he had suddenly found a lemon in his mouth. Both Kili and Fili appeared beside their uncle, having worked their way around the other dwarves. Kili was looking on in disbelief. He shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. "I should have known," he grumbled and directed a frown at the wolf.

Though he had almost been forgotten amid the developments of the afternoon, Bilbo finally found his voice. The little hobbit dared not take one step closer to the beast that sat nearby as he remarked, "I knew I had seen something following us a while back."

"Indeed, my friend here has been with you all since you left Bywater."

It was Thorin who spoke next. "Since Bywater?"

Gandalf hummed loudly in affirmation. "Don't look so surprised, Thorin. I told you I had to speak to a friend, did I not?"

"This," Thorin looked skeptical as he pointed to the wolf, " _This_ is your friend?"

"In a manner," Gandalf confirmed.

The way his features from one expression to the next it seemed that Thorin could not quite make up his mind about what he felt, so, straightening his back, he cleared his throat and said, "Right…Does this beast – _wolf_ have a name?"

"I'm certain she does," Gandalf replied as he eyed the wolf, "but I am afraid it is not mine to give. If you desire to learn it, Thorin, you'll have to ask _her_ for it."

" _Ask_ her? _Her_?" Thorin's mouth clamped shut so tight the sound of his teeth snapping together was heard all around. Tossing his hands in frustration, he whirled about to face the group of dwarves. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get everything together, we're moving out! And you," he turned to face Kili, his gloved finger level with the tip of the young dwarf's nose, "You go sit with that miserable wizard and see what he can do for that head of yours."

Kili bowed his head respectfully but refused to acknowledge that the relief Thorin had felt fom his arrival had finally gone. As the other dwarves jumped to bustling around him, Kili wandered over to where Gandalf stood with the wolf and the hobbit.

Looking up from the wolf, Gandalf smiled kindly at the approaching dwarf. "Kili, do you require healing, my boy?"

"I do."

"Well, it never has been my strong suit but sit and I will do what I can."

They got on like that for a little while, with Gandalf grazing his fingers over Kili's temple and mumbling words that were incoherent to the dwarve's ears. Before long, some of the sting began to fade away even if the injury itself remained.

"Gandalf," Kili asked just as the wizard was concluding his healing, "who do you think attended to my wound?"

"Why, the wolf did, of course." Beside Gandalf, the wolf chuffed and flicked her eyes to meet Kili's.

Kili sighed. He should not have expected anything more. With quiet words of thanks, he stood and departed the wizard's side. For a moment, he expected the wolf to join him but when he looked back he was surprised – and perhaps a little disappointed – to see that she continued to lay beside Gandalf and the hobbit, her head resting atop her paws and her eyes not so much as sparing a glance after him.

.

* * *

.

For the most part the dwarves left the wolf alone. She kept pace beside Gandalf's horse as the company rode over the hills that lay cradled in the shadows of the Misty Mountains. The terrain grew ever rockier; huge boulders sprung up from the ground like trees and each brought with it the potential for ambush. It was not unknown for wargs and their orc riders to wander these lands and Thorin knew as much. He remained watchful with each passing mile as he directed his dwarves back along the Bruinen River. Few ever complained, each of them remaining stalwart and loyal despite the saddle sores that grew on their rumps.

They knew that Rivendell was near, its sacred halls tucked away in a valley at the mouth of the wilds of the mountains. Thorin staunchly refused to go near the Last Homely House regardless of their need for supplies and rest. None of the dwarves thought to question him on this decision; they would follow Thorin to the ends of the world and back if he only asked them.

The sun was just beginning to set over the hilltops in the distance when Thorin announced that they would ride until dark before making camp. They had been thrown off course by Kili's accident and had time to make up for. All around them, the fading light fell over them like a shadow. The pinks gave way to purples and orange-golds as the sky retreated into darkness. Even the clouds above seemed to follow the sun from its temporary home, leaving the sky open and clear of anything other than stars.

Guiding his pony along the rough ground, Thorin's eyes swept over the area for a suitable place to rest. Beneath him, his pony tossed its head, sending its black mane cascading through the air. It snorted and pawed the ground mid-step and it occurred to Thorin that something must have upset the gelding. Glancing down, he saw that Gandalf's pet had come to join him and was now loping alongside the pony. As if sensing Thorin's eyes on her, the wolf glanced up, her gait slowing when she felt the warning in his glare. Thorin had heard her whine for attention from Gandalf and Kili but the beast did no such thing now that she trailed beside him. She fell back obediently without him having to utter a word.

An hour after nightfall, Thorin finally decided on a suitable place to make came. The land stretched out around them, flat for half a mile on each side, with a large enough rock formation that they could set camp behind. The dwarves did so thankfully, each one dismounting his pony bemoaning his aching muscles.

Gloin groused, "I'll be glad to be rid of these blasted nags!"

"Aye, perhaps, but you won't be saying that for long once you've had to walk for days on your own two feet," Bofur replied meaningfully. Gloin mumbled in response but said nothing else.

Like the rest of the dwarves, Kili and Fili did their share of unpacking, tending to the ponies as was their usual duty. They unsaddled each of them and hitched their bridles to stakes in the ground. Fili had not let Kili out of his sight since his younger brother's return and each time Kili would skirt to the edge of the fair-haired dwarf's vision, Fili would whirl about and warn him not wander off.

"Do you see any rivers around here, Fili?" Kili asked in exasperation. Not even he had enough talent for mischief to fall in rivers where there were none.

"No," Fili called as he handed Myrtle a handful of hay, "But I do see a reckless little brother who finds trouble wherever he is."

"In the middle of camp?"

Kili turned to stomp away, his foot coming down hard on something considerably softer as he took his first step. A loud yelp went out and a blur of pale fur darted around his legs.

"See what I mean?" Fili snorted as he watched the wolf that had been slinking behind Kili tuck tail and hurry away from the dwarf that had stepped on her.

"Shouldn't have been under my feet," Kili muttered, though when he thought his brother was not looking, he did cast an apologetic glance at the animal that had retreated to Thorin's side.

Across camp, Thorin watched the wolf with veiled curiosity. She had come to settle beside him, her body curled around itself to fend off the chill in the air. Every so often Thorin would catch her sharp eyes lingering on him as if sizing him up, judging him somehow. She made not a sound, as she did amongst the others, and it would have been easy to forget that she was there if had not been against Thorin's nature to do so. Throughout dinner, the wolf never stopped watching him. If Thorin reached for his water flask, her eyes beat him to it. If he stood to stride across camp, she followed alongside him.

Finally, when he could condone being followed for not one moment longer, Thorin turned to the wolf and gripped her roughly around the muzzle. She snorted in annoyance but sat still.

"Go back to your master, beast," Thorin commanded sternly, "I've no use for a pet."

As he spoke, he did not notice the presence that appeared behind him, looming over him in the darkness. "She has no master, Thorin, but she has served your nephew well. Or have forgotten already?"

It was Gandalf's voice that grated in Thorin's ear but there was sense in the wizard's words and Thorin released the wolf, a fair bit more gently than he had grabbed her. "Gandalf," he said as he turned to look up the towering distance between himself and the old man, "You more than most should know the tales of wolves from Gundabad and how they serve –"

"Thorin, I would advise you not to call her a warg one more time lest she bite you!"

Thorin cast his gaze down to glare pointedly at the wolf who remained at his side.

"I cannot abide your dwarven stubbornness for much longer," Gandalf scowled, "Do not look past good fortune when it comes upon you freely. I would bet you my beard – which is considerably longer than yours, might I add – that you have never met a creature such as the likes of the one who now follows you."

Thorin's frown abated somewhat and he looked away from both the beast and the wizard. Not far away, Kili sat with his brother, safe and whole and smiling as if nothing had befallen him. In the young dwarf's lap rested a plate laden with the dinner Bombur had prepared for them all. It was rabbit, Thorin knew because he had indulged in a bit himself, and Kili continued to pick away it as his uncle watched on. Eventually, his nephew cast his eyes up across camp and in the dark they came to rest on the wolf, who appeared to sense the new attention and twisted her head around to see Kili waving a piece of rabbit haunch at her. Off the wolf went, leaving Thorin behind as he watched her go. She rested by Kili, happily accepting the meat like any domesticated dog would table scraps. She did not growl, did not flinch or glare, when Kili's hand came down to pet her head with surprising tenderness. Seeing this, Thorin's hard look softened. She seemed an earnest enough creature and he could find no fault in that. The dwarves that followed him each possessed such traits, loyal to a fault at times, and Thorin found that, try as he might, he could not hold it against a mere animal for doing the same.

He had nearly forgotten the wizard's presence, his head snapping back around in blur of black hair when he heard Gandalf speak again. "They say dogs are good judges of character. Perhaps that is why she follows you, Thorin. Even that rockheaded nephew of yours has caught her attention."

"Aye," the dwarf prince conceded quietly. With a parting glance at the wizard, who was smiling a bit too broadly for Thorin's liking, he made his way back to his bedroll across camp where he pulled his sword from its sheath for sharpening. And this time, he had no thoughts of using against the beast that had joined his company.


	6. A Burden to Bear

For half the night they all slept soundly. Only two remained awake in the company, excluding the wolf, who had wandered off into the darkness. The night had proved restless for Thorin despite the day's strain. Well past midnight, when the stars were at their peak, Thorin rose from his bed roll and went to join Dwalin for the night's watch. The hardy, battle-scarred dwarf, whom Thorin had known from childhood, greeted his prince with a firm nod of his tattooed head. He shifted on the ground to make room for Thorin, who settled easily beside him.

"Can't sleep I see."

"No," Thorin replied, "Rest has not come easily to me for some time now."

To this, Dwalin said nothing, merely giving Thorin a knowing look, one that transcended any words of sympathy he could have offered. It was a look from one warrior to another.

Before any further words could be spoken, there came a soft rustling from across camp. The halfling had begun to stir, twisting from one side to the other. He did not seem quite awake as his small hands drew the large green cloak he wore tighter around his frame. He was cold, Thorin realized, but there was nothing to be done about it for the fire had long since burned to embers. Thorin's fingers crept to his own cloak and began to tug at the heavy metal clasp that bound it round his shoulders. It was only then, as his fingers loosened the clip, that the wolf came slinking out of the darkness. She crept towards the hobbit, her padded feet silent as she took care to avoid the various sleeping forms that dotted the camp. With Thorin's watchful gaze upon her, she found her way to Bilbo and dropped to her belly beside him, curling around the hobbit's shivering form. She tucked her nose on top of the hobbit's knee, and, as if in unconscious response, Bilbo's drowsy head shifted onto the soft fur of her haunches like she was some blessed down pillow that had magically appeared among the rocks.

Thorin's eyes widened as he took the scene in, his dark brows lingering near his hairline until he saw the halfling cease his shivering. Dwalin, who had witnessed the animal's display of character alongside Thorin, remarked, "Looks as if you can keep your cloak after all."

"Indeed."

"You don't trust the wizard's pet?"

"I trust this company of dwarves and that is it."

Dwalin's massive shoulders rose and fell as he rolled them in agreement. "I can't fault you for that –"

Thorin cast a look at his friend as if to say he had not yet finished with what he had to say and Dwalin respectfully closed his mouth. "If Gandalf says the wolf can be trusted, I will believe him until I find evidence to prove otherwise. She is no warg, one can tell as much by looking at her."

The wolf was indeed larger than any of the species Thorin had seen before, that much was true, and unnervingly intelligent to boot, but she was not as twisted and ugly as any warg.

"I don't believe she'll do us any harm, Thorin. Especially if she keeps an eye on the lad." A meaty thumb was issued in the direction of Kili, who slept peacefully near his brother.

Thorin bit back a frustrated groan at the mention of his nephew, the sort of sound he had heard his own father make time and again during his youth. Thorin would concede to give the wolf that much credit, at least; if she could keep a careful eye on Kili, Thorin thought he may just consider making her the first ever Crown Pet the line of Durin had ever seen.

.

* * *

.

It was a high pitched squeak of distress that woke everyone the next morning. Kili was the first to sit up, having already lingered on the edge of waking for some time. Mumbled words of annoyance went up around camp as everyone searched with bleary eyes for the source of the offending noise.

Kili was not at all surprised to see that it was Bilbo who had made the sound, and it was _Bilbo_ who was now sitting with his feet and knees drawn into his chest, making the already small hobbit seem impossibly smaller. Rubbing a dirty hand across his lids, Kili called out to Bilbo.

"Somethin' wrong, Mr. Boggins?"

It was a rhetorical question, whether the halfling knew it or not. Kili had already noticed what had the hobbit in such a fearful state. Around him lay curled the wolf, her head still tucked sleepily between her paws as her sides rose and fell in the throes of sleep.

"I – I'm fine," Bilbo stammered. "She just gave me a fright, that's all."

Kili grinned at the halfling's words and debated briefly with himself whether or not to admit that he had felt the same only twenty-four hours ago when he had first awoken to find the wolf at his feet. He quickly decided against mentioning it. It would be more amusing for him and the others if they were able to watch Mr. Baggins squirm.

Nearby, Kili heard old Bombur call grumpily, "Not all of us had the luxury of fur blankets last night, master hobbit."

Bilbo pierced the round dwarf with a glare, one which quickly faded amidst reddening cheeks. Kili supposed the hobbit had thought better about angering the dwarf in charge of his meals. Finding it within himself to take pity on his smallest companion, Kili whistled and, in doing so, brought the wolf completely out of her slumber. Her head lifted up, ears twitching at the early morning ruckus caused by thirteen sleep-deprived dwarves. Instinctually, her eyes flitted to Kili, who grinned and whistled once more. He had hoped she would respond to his call and she just that, prying her body from the ground with a shake, and hurrying over to Kili's side.

"Bothering our hobbit this early, are you?" he asked, patting her head. The wolf gave an apologetic whine before glancing back to Bilbo, who was looking considerably more comfortable in her absence.

As expected, the young dwarf only had a few more moments of peace before he heard his uncle's voice called out over the others.

"Kili! Fili! Get the ponies saddled."

Fili sat up from his pallet and ran a hand through his hair to clear it from his eyes. "Ponies?" he asked drowsily, biting off a yawn.

"Ponies," Kili confirmed with a self-pitying nod.

Both brothers stood, stretching with identical, well-practiced motions before trudging off toward the ponies. Naturally, the wolf followed the two young dwarves, the ones who would tolerate her presence the most. They had not gone far when Kili heard his brother curse and grunt uncomfortably. Fili's hand lashed out to swat away the long nose that had inserted itself intrusively into his coat pocket.

His light eyes narrowed on his brother's darker ones in a way that Kili recognized as not being entirely unamused. The elder brother muttered, "Tell your dog to stay away from my pockets, Kili."

Kili gave him a broad grin. "Why? What's in your pockets, brother?"

"Nothing!"

"Her nose says otherwise."

Fili frowned and stuck his hand into the depths of the pocket in question, a place where Kili himself would never dare to venture. A few moments later, he withdrew his hand, his fingers covered in crispy, brown crumbs.

"Just a bit of dried biscuit," Fili observed with a frown.

Stopping her assault on Fili's pocket, the wolf's nose wrinkled at the new information, showing her disappointment as clearly as any human could. Her interest gone, she darted away, leaving the two brothers to their chores. Kili and Fili set to loosening the ponies' reins from the stakes that had held them overnight.

"Let 'em wander a bit," Fili suggested, "They won't go far."

The ponies were tame enough and Kili knew his brother's judgment to be sound so he freed them to graze while the saddles were prepared. As luck would have it, it was then that misfortune struck.

Fili heard the growls before his brother did, his fair head turning to search for the wolf. He spotted her atop the nearest hill, her lips drawn back over her long canines and her body rigid as stone. Her hackles went up and her snarling grew louder until even Kili's attention was drawn away from his task.

Fili asked, "What's she on about?"

Kili frowned, his handsome features tugging downward amidst a wash of dark hair. "Go have a look."

Nodding, Fili went off, following the wolf's path up the hill. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the bright morning sun. In the distance, a pack of dark shapes swept across the golden foothills. Whatever the cause, the pack was moving too quickly to be deer or any other sort of simple plains-dwelling creature.

When the first howl broke through the air, Fili knew at once what the sight before him truly was. Fear, cold and bitter, fell over him, weighing down his bones until he had to grit his teeth against it. He forced the feeling away into the depths of his belly where it would not hinder him and, whirling about, he called out to the others, "Warg riders!"

Heads came up all across camp as alarm spread at his announcement and a moment later the dawdling dwarves sprung into action. Thorin ordered that the ponies be forgotten and barked out to Kili, "Send them away! Have them lead the wargs away from us!"

Kili did as he was ordered, his hand coming down hard on the rumps of several ponies until they were all galloping away from camp.

"Grab what you can, leave the rest! We need to move!" Thorin rushed from dwarf to dwarf, aiding them when he could and growling orders when he felt they were moving too slow.

Gandalf, with Bilbo clinging close to his side, strode over to the dwarf prince, his normally amiable features set into a hard line. "You must follow me if you wish to escape. We cannot linger out on these open hills for long lest the wargs run us down," the wizard told him.

Spinning to face the old man, Thorin growled, "Follow you where?"

To the dwarf prince's question, Gandalf said nothing. Despite his reservations, the graveness that showed from the Grey Wizard's blue eyes was all the motivation Thorin needed at that moment. Knowing he had little choice, he ordered the others to run.

Fili came sliding back down the hill and had no sooner made it to his feet when Kili reached out to pull him away towards the other dwarves.

"It'll be alright, little brother," Fili reassured the other breathlessly.

Smiling despite the eminent danger, his body humming with adrenaline, Kili fired back, "Of course it will!"

From behind them, in a voice already lisping from lack of air, Balin called, "Now's not the time, laddies. Ye' ought to be worried about running a bit faster."

All around him, Kili watched as the rest of the company followed behind Thorin and Gandalf. Concern, tainted and twisted with momentary panic, filled him as it suddenly occurred to him to search for the halfling. With a sigh of relief, he saw Bilbo running alongside Bofur, the dwarf's hand wrapped protectively around Bilbo's collar as he half-dragged, half-carried the hobbit along.

After a quick headcount, Kili noted that there was only one who missing – the wolf.

Glancing around, Kili spied a flash of light colored fur as it disappeared over the top of a distant hill, headed _in_ the direction of the warg riders.

"Gandalf," Kili shouted over the thunderous sound of thudding feet, "the wolf!"

The Grey Wizard did not slow his pace as he called back, "She will do what she must, master dwarf, to buy us what time she can."

The idea settled in Kili's mind and he immediately rejected it. She would be torn to pieces, he was not so naïve to hope differently, and he knew without doubt that he would be wishing in vain for her to outrun a pack of Gundabad wargs. It was a sinking, pathetic feeling unfamiliar to him that he felt then, one fraught with the realization that the beast who had saved his life would be so easily lost to him.

He thought to whisper his apologies to the wolf aloud but his quickening breath prevented him from doing so. Up ahead, he heard Gandalf shout out directions and the company of dwarves pulled a sharp left, urging Kili along with them.

"Behind these rocks!" Thorin hissed loudly as the dwarves all came sliding to a halt, each of them clambering for space. Some distance ahead, Gandalf vanished behind another cropping of rocks but before Kili could puzzle over where the wizard was going, he heard the slathering growl of a warg that could not have been more than twenty yards away. A firm grip on his arm drew his attention to Thorin. Their eyes met and Kili soon understood what his uncle was asking of him. Nodding his head, Kili slipped one hand behind his back and drew his bow. He notched an arrow, his expert fingers never faltering despite the lessening distance between him and the warg that would soon be upon the company.

Kili had killed orcs and goblins in his travels, though even those skirmishes were rare. Most of his training had come under his uncle's tutelage, safe within the walled cities of Men. But wargs? It dawned on the dwarf that he knew nothing about killing wargs.

_Its throat?_ he wondered. _Between_ _its eyes? The chest, maybe? Or should I shoot its rider first?_ Kili's mind spun, his fingers twitching with his growing uncertainty.

_Click – scrape – click,_ the sound of the monstrous beast's claws against stone sounded like war drums to Kili's ears. It would be on them soon. He was out of time.

With one last deep breath, Kili stepped out from the rock and found the warg within his sights. The split second hum of an arrow rocketing from the bowstring was the only thing that caused Kili to realize that he had released the shot. _Too soon_.

His heart sank sickeningly into his stomach at the recognition of his failure that came when the warg crashed down at his feet. It was down, yes, but it was not dead. With a wounded bellow, the warg and its rider sounded out the dwarves' attack, the call ripping away with it the hiding spot that otherwise might have given them a fighting chance.

Kili readied another arrow, his eyes shining with previously unfelt hatred for the beast. The rest of his companions had only just lifted their weapons to silence the two enemies when, in a blur of pale fur, a third figure leapt from the rock above. There was silence soon after as the wolf's jaws locked around the orc's throat and, with one mighty tear, she pulled the foul creature's jugular free in a spray of blackened blood and gore.

A snarling bark of warning erupted from the wolf's throat as she looked upon the staring dwarves.

_Go!_ she seemed to plead. _Run!_

The growl was the last sound Kili heard her make before Fili's hand closed around his wrist and dragged him forward. Ahead of them, Gandalf was shouting and waving them towards an invisible goal and behind them echoed the violent growls of the wolf as she chewed and tore away at the warg.

Thorin reached the rock just ahead of Bofur and Bilbo, tossing them both into the passage that Gandalf had discovered. They both slid down with dual cries and were shortly followed by more of the dwarves.

_Bilbo, Bofur, Bombur, Balin._

Kili stopped running. The company was being surrounded. The others wouldn't make it, he realized.

_Dori, Dwalin, Nori._

He pulled his bowstring tight and fired. An orc slid from its mount with a shriek and Kili smiled.

_Ori, Fili, Bifur._

Again, Kili fired and another orc slumped to the ground.

_Gloin and Oin._

Two more arrows were set free and Kili heard Thorin's commanding shout – its urgency driven by the desperation in the dwarf prince's voice.

"Kili! Run!" Thorin called, his baritone breaking and boding no refusal. "They have archers, boy, _run_!"

Kili heeded his uncle's warning too late, saw the archers too late. Not a mere thirty feet from him – an easy shot – an orc had appeared and in its mottled, grey hand was a bow, the string drawn taunt.

_This is it_ , Kili thought solemnly. He had survived the Bruinen for naught. He would die here. But he would not die without taking one more of the ugly bastards with him. He fired his last arrow into the matted, brown chest of the orc archer's warg. With a grim smile – one he claimed by right as part of the great line of Durin – Kili watched the massive creature sink to its knees. He did not blink, did not flinch, when he saw the orc's hand fall to the side as its arrow was loosed. He heard Thorin's outraged cry of stern denial and waited for the pain.

But it never came.

There was a disgusting _thump_ of an arrow sinking into muscle, followed by the pained yelp of a creature Kili had not seen approach. Something heavy and tawny-furred and horribly _still_ landed at his feet. It was the wolf; Kili recognized the creature's form with a mix of horror and disbelief that nearly sent him reeling.

Scrambling to grab her wounded form into his arms, Kili just had enough time to lift her from the bloodied patch of ground before Thorin was at his side, hauling him to the mouth of the passage. Down the dwarves slid. Kili soon came to a stop, the wolf unmoving within his arms. A flurry of incoherent cries of relief went up from the others but they all too quickly fell silent at the sight of the creature they had previously called "beast."

Lying across Kili's lap, the wolf made a pitiful sound as her head rose weakly to eye the shaft that was buried to its fletching behind her shoulder. Blood, bright and pungent, seeped from the wound to coat her fair fur, spilling over it like red wine on a fine rug. Her breathing was labored. She would not last the next minute.

"The beast saved your life," Fili gasped as he watched his brother grip the wolf tightly.

"No," Thorin's voice cut loudly above the younger dwarf's, "Not a beast."

Kili could not muster the courage to look at either of his relatives. A dull ache resounded in his chest as he watched the wolf in her struggle to breathe. He had only been in the company of this animal for little over a day and twice she had saved him. He did not claim to understand sacrifice, he was no warrior, not yet, not truly. But he had heard the tales of old, the ones passed down from generations that spoke of great dwarven heroes giving themselves for the greater good, the one for the many. Part of Kili, the side of him that lived in the shadow of his uncle, had always clung reverently to this very idea. He had been ready to become an exemplar of it, however foolish it might have seemed. Mere moments ago, he had accepted his death; he had accepted that the others would go one without him, however foolish and melodramatic the notion may have been. But then the wolf had taken his place; beast or not, she had thrown herself on the arrow meant for him just like any of the great dwarves of old…a mere animal had done this.

And it shamed him.

Turning his eyes to Gandalf, he pleaded, "Save her!"

The Grey Wizard's face was clouded with something unreadable as his sorrowful eyes focused on the unmoving wolf.

"She is an animal, lad," Balin coaxed gently, "Let her go."

Kili wavered. An animal. Just an animal. _No_ , he thought bitterly. He was part of Durin's Folk, he did not leave debts unpaid. He would save the creature if he could.

Finally, Gandalf laid aside his staff and unwound the tattered silver scar he wore from around his neck. As the wizard knelt down, Thorin joined his nephew's side. He outstretched his hand, his fingers closing around the protruding shaft, and he snapped it, eliciting a quiet whine from the wolf as she jerked in Kili's arms. Together the two dwarves lifted the wolf so that Gandalf could wrap the scarf around her middle. The Grey Wizard muttered words of magic all the while, his thin lips moving in patterns strange and foreign to the onlookers. When he had tied the knot, he stood once more, his hand lingering on the wolf for a brief moment.

"That," the wizard said gravely as he drew his hand away, "is the best I can do." His eyes lingered on the creatures form a moment too long, something akin to regret, perhaps even guilt, flashing in those aged corners.

"We need to keep moving lest the wargs find us trapped like rats within this tunnel." Thorin looked to Gandalf. "Where does this passage lead?"

"You will see when we get there," Gandalf replied sharply. "Come, we must not tarry."

Before Kili could protest, his uncle brushed him aside and slid his blue-clad arms beneath the wolf's limp body.

Seeing Kili's troubled face, Thorin said firmly, "I will carry her."

They traveled for what felt to their tired legs to be leagues, all the while forced single-file between the narrow walls of the passage. The rock face seemed to constrict around them, growing ever tighter as it bored down on them. This was not the splendid halls of Erebor, or even the once great mining tunnels of Moria; it was foreign stone, untouched by dwarven hands and unwelcoming to the tired travelers. For the first time since the journey had begun, the dwarves found themselves envying the little hobbit. But even Bilbo grew uneasy as urgency nipped at his heels to speed him along each time he glanced back at Thorin and the wolf.

Thorin bore the weight admirably, the wolf in his arms not much smaller than himself, her dead weight testing even Thorin's strength. His features were grim, his dark brows narrowed over pursed lips. Several times, Gloin and Dwalin, arguably the strongest of the thirteen, offered to carry the wolf but each time Thorin rejected them in the same fashion, with a single, grimly voiced "no." One look at him was enough to confirm what a few of the dwarves feared – the wolf's breathing was becoming frighteningly shallow. Thorin knew before the others did that they would lose the creature soon.

Kili trudged behind his uncle, his youthful eyes harrowed from fretfulness. _Don't pass into the halls of Mahal just yet, my friend,_ he willed the wolf silently, _not yet_. As if by some miracle granted by the Valar above, the passage appeared to open just ahead, with light peering around the bend. Bilbo gave voice to this observation and his excited cry prompted the dwarves to quicken their pace. Moments later, they reached the tunnel's end and before their weary eyes stretched the valley of the Last Homely House.

Rivendell, home of the Lord Elrond and his folk, stood out against the slopes of the valley, its fine elvish craftsmanship gleaming in golden glory. It was more beautiful than anything Kili had ever seen in his life, for his eyes had never graced the halls of Erebor, the only dwarven hold which might have equaled the splendor set before him. Shouts went up from the older dwarves, the ones who held the deepest grudges against the elves, and many of them turned to face Gandalf, who met their furious gazes without pause.

Thorin, his arms sagging from the knowledge of what lay just ahead, narrowed his eyes on the wizard, his gaze more potent and sharp than any had ever seen it. "Rivendell?" he snarled. "You brought us here? Knowing what burden we carry? The elves will seek to stop us, Gandalf. And you knew this!"

The Grey Wizard would abide none of Thorin's crossness. "Then give the wolf over to me, Thorin Oakenshield, and be on your way."

Thorin hesitated, his grip tightening against the creature in his arms.

"I thought not," Gandalf said lowly. "Lord Elrond can help you. He is one of the few in all of Middle Earth that can read the map you carry."

"I do not require the aid of some trickster king!"

Kili could watch the exchange no longer, knowing that with each word more of the wolf's life ebbed away. Stepping forward, he bent his head next to Thorin's, not nearly foolish enough to undermine his guardian aloud for all to hear.

"Uncle," he pleaded quietly, "Set aside your hatred for the day, at least. Let the elves do what they can for the wolf."

He was positive he actually _heard_ his uncle's teeth grit as Thorin turned his harsh gaze on him. It was all Kili could do not to balk under its heat, to stand his ground like Balin or Dwalin would have done. Without one more word, Thorin turned on his heel and started down the path toward the elven refuge below. Murmurs of unease went up among the dwarves as they followed after him and Kili took the opportunity to fall to the back. He did not miss Gandalf's approving gaze as he went, though he did able his best to ignore it.


	7. Introductions are in Order

Being trapped in an elven stronghold did not sit well with Thorin Oakenshield. He was unsettled despite the generosity of his hosts and the safety which was feigned while his dwarves walked Rivendell's pathways. The first night of their stay, Thorin had declined the offer of rooms and soft beds. Even the food that was offered garnered suspicion and Thorin requested it be served in their makeshift camp, away from the curious gazes of most of the elves.

Part of Thorin wished that the wolf had not been wounded (though he would not deny that he would have even seen her killed if it would have spared his nephew, had it come to that). That aside, if she still remained with his company, he thought perhaps she would have proven to be a suitable guard to deter any of the prancing light-foots that thought to enter the small area he had claimed for his people. But she had been swept away moments after they had crossed the bridge into Rivendell and they had heard not one word about her for hours.

"You're sure you won't eat, Thorin?"

The dwarf prince shook off his brooding mood long enough to see Bombur standing above him, waving a plate at him that was loaded to the edges with food.

Thorin shook his head, black hair splaying over his shoulders. "My thanks, Bombur, but no."

"Bring it over here, then! I'll eat enough for the both of us!" It was Dwalin who called out. Though his friend had put up a valiant effort at turning his nose up at the elvish cuisine, Dwalin's stomach had eventually got the best of him. Even Bilbo had put away more food than Thorin would have thought possible given his small size. It had done the prince good to see his fellows with full bellies and he would not deny them that regardless of the cost to his pride.

Beside Thorin sat Fili. The blonde dwarf's eyes were leveled on his younger brother, who sat across the balcony from the rest of them, his hands whittling away a small block of wood while Bofur regaled him with a joke or two.

"Perhaps if you had allowed us to have a pet when were children, he wouldn't have gotten so attached to that dog." Fili spoke with a smile, one that bore a strong familial resemblance to the older dwarf at his side.

"Perhaps," Thorin acknowledged. "But dogs and the like die too soon for our kind; then the children have to face the burden of saying goodbye. I did not wish that on you."

"No, neither did mother."

"I highly doubt Dis would have trusted either of you with anything living for fear that might suffer at your hands. Besides, she already had too ravenous beasts to feed as it was without the added stress a pet would have caused."

"Ravenous beasts?" Fili gaped in mock offence. "You ate enough for my brother and I both!"

The memory of sitting at his sister's table almost brought a smile to Thorin's haggard face. He said, "It's the Durin appetite. Comes with our stout hearts and strong backs."

"And our dashing good-looks, too," Fili added with a grin, "Though poor Kili missed the mark on that one."

From across the balcony, Kili interrupted Bofur long enough to call, "I heard that!"

The young dwarf's outburst, however half-hearted, was the last push the future king needed to finally coax a small smile to his face.

.

* * *

.

Orla awoke to a world filled with more color than she was used to. No longer were her eyes hindered by the partial colorblindness of her wolf form; the world seemed to erupt in shades of gold and gleaming silver. On the bed - though it took her a long moment to come to her senses enough to realize the feel of a mattress beneath her body – something unknown bounced atop the sheets, causing them to gather and bunch and slide off her until the slightly chilled air brushed her skin.

Raising herself from her pillow, Orla sat up and found the familiar face of a child awaiting her attention with a cheerful smile.

"You're awake!" the youngling chirped with the telltale lisp of childhood.

It took Orla only a moment to place the soot colored hair that fell in loose ringlets around the boy's face and the bright grey eyes that flashed with energy. An easy smile broke over her lips and the boy grinned back.

"Estel," she called his name softly, her voice ragged from disuse.

It had been nearly three years since she had seen the child and she figured that his tenth summer would soon be upon him.

"Mithrandir said you were here. I almost didn't believe him, with everyone being so secretive about it. But I should have known."

He prattled on and Orla listened attentively, though she took the time to discreetly examine her wounds. Her shoulder ached and when she lifted the bandages to look at the injury, she frowned at the jagged white scar tissue that was forming at the edges an angry wound. Regardless, she was whole and no doubt it was thanks to Lord Elrond, whose home she had recognized as soon as her eyes had fallen on the Elf Lord's ward. It had been a long while since her travels had last brought her to Rivendell and it was no secret that she had ached to see the valley of the Last Homely House again.

But now that she had found herself in the home of the elves, it meant that her journey was over. The realization both unsettled and relieved her. If there was anything her confrontation with the wargs had taught her, it was that she did not possess the stones for Thorin Oakenshield's quest. Never before had she been so grievously wounded, save for once and that had been long, long ago, in a life she rarely gave thought to.

She lived a life a peace, free of any injuries other than the nicks and scrapes that came with traversing the wilds. Still, as she lay in bed in the company of her favorite child companion, she could not help but be proud of her actions. She would not have seen the young dwarf hurt for anything in the world, not when she could have prevented it. He and the others were hardly true friends of hers – friends of the wolf, perhaps, but not _her_ – and yet she had bound herself to them with her promise to Gandalf, and that was something she would not break, no matter the cost. They were good people, easy to smile and free with their mirth when the mood struck them, and that was enough to inspire loyalty from the likes of Orla.

"Are you even listening to me, _draug'adaneth_?" Estel's youthful brow wrinkled as his lips shifted into a pout.

Orla nodded her head vigorously, smiling at the child and reaching out to place her hand atop his.

"I was telling you about the dwarves. Thirteen of them! I've never seen so many. And their beards, all different colors of red and brown and white." The boy scratched at his little dimpled chin as if to make certain that he had not begun to sprout whiskers of his own.

The young woman chuckled and gave his hand a squeeze. His eyes lit up and he leaned forward on the bed, elbows pressing down into the mattress.

"Would you like to see them? I'll show them to you but we'll have to be quiet. _Ada_ doesn't want me bothering them. I'm not even supposed to be in here with you."

He gave her a wide smile, one that Orla desperately hoped would never fade with age.

However earnest the boy's desire to show her the dwarves was, she was not comfortable risking the trouble that might come to the both of them should they defy Elrond's wishes. Being a guest in his house, not to mention owing her life to him, Orla did not wish to offend him.

Instead, in an effort to distract the child – a task easier said than done when it came to Estel – she placed her hand on her stomach and patted the growling region. She looked to the child, her eyes every bit as wide as his. _I'm hungry_. She gave him a hopelessly desperate look that would have been comical to him if he had not been but a boy.

Estel folded his arms across his chest and sat back with a stubborn snort. "Hungry? I'll not let you leave until you say it out loud."

Orla frowned and sat back against the headboard of the bed, preparing to meet the child's mule-headed ways with her own. She would give it as good as she got.

" _Al,_ " the child grunted. _No._

She narrowed her eyes on his; they were a similar shade to her own, perhaps a bit more clear than hers, shining brightly with the beauty of his distant mixed heritage.

He repeated his refusal to move and in response, Orla's stomach churned louder. Estel found this sound amusing and his lips quirked crookedly as the noise continued.

Relenting, Orla whispered in defeat, "I am hungry, Estel."

"In elvish, _draug'adaneth_."

_Blasted child!_ Orla bit her lip and did her best to recall what scant bit of Sindarin she knew.

" _Aes_ ," she said. _Food_.

Satisfied, Estel's smile lingered as he pushed himself off the bed, hopping down to the floor with agility that Orla could not quite muster at the moment.

"I'll wait for you outside. Your clothes are by chair over there but your coat is on the table. I went through your pockets. Thought you might have some treats."

Shooing the child from the room with a chuckle, she made a mental note for herself to work on scolding people with her eyes in wordless elvish. She undressed as quickly from the gown she wore as her injury would allow her, lingering briefly in naught but her smalls. The nearby mirror revealed little of the severity of her bandaged wound, showing only the slight crookedness with which she held her shoulder. Her body bore more scars than she liked to acknowledge; rarely did she take the time to look at them. Faded marks crossed ribs that had long ago been broken, the faintest of scarring stretched over her belly, the nearly undetectable unevenness to her collarbone from when it had been shattered - now these injuries from her youth would be accompanied by an unpleasant gash between her chest and shoulder. It mattered little to her and uncaringly she looked away from her reflection.

Orla tugged on the new britches and shirt that Elrond had supplied her with and found her old, travel-worn boots nearby. They had been polished and the leather shown better than it had in years. A fine, padded tunic rested on the back of the chair and when she took it in her hands she realized that it had been reinforced with metal too light to be regular chainmail but too sturdy to be mere cloth.

_Mithril,_ she decided with a frown. _Why would Elrond_ bestow _on me such a valuable gift?_ Had it not been against her grain to do so, she would have asked the Elf Lord this question herself. But she held her tongue and brushed away any possible reasons behind the mithril-layered tunic as she shrugged it on. Her old coat came last and as she picked it up, images of Kili splashing about in the river after it sprung to her mind and she laughed quietly to herself. Truth be told, she was eager to meet that particular dwarf in person.

As promised, Estel was waiting on her just outside her door, his little foot tapping impatiently against the smooth marble floor.

" _Aes_?" he queried, one eye brow lifted teasingly in case Orla had changed her mind about the food.

The woman nodded her head and gestured for the boy to continue on. She would be right behind him. Estel led her through the winding paths of Rivendell, paths she had long forgotten since her last visit, which had been rather brief. He took her hand as they came to one of the many bridges that stretched over the sanctuary's bubbling streams.

With a laugh, his small hand gripped hers tighter and he called over his shoulder, "Don't fall in!"

She said nothing. Her laughter spoke for her, bubbling around her like the brook they were crossing over.

It was not much further when Estel stopped suddenly, his body blocking Orla's path unexpectedly so that she narrowly missed bumping into him.

"There they are!" he gasped with excitement. His free hand motioned at the balcony that lay ahead, its delicately protruding lip jutting out over the ledge of a waterfall. "The dwarves!"

_The dwarves,_ Orla seconded. She counted all thirteen of them, able to name each and every one having never spoken a word to any of them.

"Don't you want to meet them?" Estel asked, turning to her, his hand still held within hers.

She shook her head and gave him a look that said, _Food. Now._

The boy sighed and scuffed his bare foot against the ground. "Oh, alright!"

Most unfortunately, however, it seemed food would have to wait for the time being. A voice, one that was level and soft but stern in its command, broached the quiet scene. Estel's small hand immediately dropped from Orla's and the boy turned to face the bridge they had just crossed.

" _Ada_!" he exclaimed, his cheeks reddening the way children's do when they know they've been caught.

Orla inclined her head respectfully to the lithe elf that currently stood watching her and her hand gently pressed against her injured shoulder.

_Thank you for healing me_. The gesture spoke for her when her lowered eyes could not.

Lord Elrond spread his arms to her in greeting, a welcome that Orla had previously been too out of sorts to witness. The Elf Lord's eyes crinkled in amusement, showing his humor even when the firm set of his mouth did not. Orla knew him to be warm and as kind as summer, though she supposed that in dealing with the misadventures of his foster-son, he had to exhibit some form of parental sternness.

"Welcome to Rivendell, Orla, daughter of the Anduin, it does my heart good to see that your wounds have mended, even though, perhaps," he cast a mildly disapproving frown at Estel, "You would have benefitted from a day's bed-rest."

Orla glanced down at Estel's bowed head and then back to the fair lord. She shrugged, her right shoulder moving stiffly, and offered the elf a soft smile.

_He is only doing as children do._ Placing a hand fondly atop Estel's dark head, she let her eyes speak for her. _It's alright with me._

Though he said nothing, Orla knew that he had understood her meaning. He came forward, his long robes amplifying the natural elven grace he carried with each step. So gentle was his bearing that even Orla envied him, despite being possessed of much grace herself. She would have been content just to let her eyes linger on him, or any of the elves, for that matter, just to observe the way they moved, the way they _existed_. After spending a month following a loud, heavy-footed contingent of dwarves, being the presence of elves proved a sharp contrast and Orla's heart was gladdened by it.

The boy was the first to interrupt the casual silence that had fallen over them. He said to Elrond, "She's hungry, _ada_."

"And you thought it best to find her a meal amongst our dwarven guests?" Elrond merely shook his head, his hair falling over his shoulders like dark silk. He sighed, almost wistfully, and Orla took from the sound that perhaps Estel's innocent, if not troublesome, ways reminded him of centuries long past when his twin sons had done the same.

"Go and find Mithrandir, Estel," Elrond instructed gently, "Inform him that Orla has awoken."

Seizing his opportunity to earn his foster-father's forgiveness, Estel bounded away with hardly more than a wave to the adults who watched him go.

Shaking his head, Elrond muttered, "Much trouble, that one." Orla grinned at his words, not blind to the obvious affection the ancient elf held for the child of Men.

The topic of Estel was fleeting, however, and just as Orla knew it would, the conversation turned to her arrival in Rivendell. Elrond closed the rest of the distance between them and came to stand at her side. As small as she was in height, not many inches over five feet, the top of her head barely grazed the Elf Lord's shoulder and she was forced to crane her neck upwards to compensate for his closeness. He was looking down at her, his previously clear eyes troubled. Seeing this, Orla's own countenance clouded, her gentle features falling as if she had done something wrong.

"I did not expect to see you again when you left us last, especially not in the company of dwarves…and in the shape of a _gaur_ , at that."

Immediately, Orla recoiled. She knew the word; she had learned it during her first visit when Elrond had recognized her as possessing her father's gifts. While Elrond no doubt used it because it was the closest thing his language had to express her gifts, it struck an ugly cord in Orla's heart that panged her so sharply she braved hardening her eyes against the timeless creature that had used it.

Raising his hand halfway upon seeing the woman's consternation, Elrond said, "Peace, Orla. Mithrandir has spoken to me of your bravery and I commend you for it."

Orla's eyes flashed. _Even though I brought the likes of Thorin Oakenshield into your home?_

" _That_ ," Elrond frowned as he read the name in the depths of Orla's eyes, "is another matter entirely. I would ask you to explain yourself but I doubt I could pry the words from your lips given the rest of the Third Age and if I could not, even those eyes of yours could not muster enough words to convince me."

Quite satisfied with Elrond's conclusion, the woman bobbed her head sharply in agreement.

In his infinite wisdom, which often seemed literally _infinite_ , Elrond dismissed the topic and instead turned his attention to growing noise of the dwarves that milled about some distance away. "Ah," he declared, "it seems that they have finally accepted my invitation to join us for the midday meal. I shall extend it to you, of course, if you wish."

He did not have to see the vigorous nod Orla gave him to know that she intended to take him up on the offer. Chuckling, Elrond extended his arm to the human woman and she took it appreciatively, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. As they walked along, Elrond asked, "Have you ever had the pleasure of dining with dwarves?"

Orla shook her head and tilted her eyes at him. _Not in person, per se._

The Elf-Lord's grin spread and he told her with a laugh, "Then I believe that you shall find this quite an interesting experience."

.

* * *

.

Kili had never dined with elves before and from the look of all the leafy greens on the table, the prospect was becoming all the more dubious by the minute. Fili shared his sentiment and grumbled vocally at the lack of real sustenance. Kili wanted meat, whether it was poultry, beef, venison, or pork. It didn't make a difference.

"Maybe it's a first course, do you think?" he asked Fili hopefully.

Fili glowered at the set table before him. "It had better be."

A hand swatted Kili on the arm and he turned to see Bifur pointing at one vegetable in particular. The grizzled dwarf garbled something unintelligible but Kili got the gist of it.

"Lettuce, I think," he answered with a shrug.

Bifur made a face, his features smashing together in distaste. He muttered something else and Kili figured it was a minor blessing that he was not able to understand it.

"Actually, it's cabbage, I believe." Kili slowly tilted his head to stare at Bombur, who had corrected him,

"And how would you know?"

"I _like_ vegetables."

Kili grunted. "I don't believe you."

They all took their seats, careful to avoid the elves that traipsed elegantly around the table. Thorin was directed to sit near the head, where the Elf Lord would surely join him in all his vaingloriousness. For once, Kili did not envy his uncle. He was happy to be stuck between Fili and Dori, who at least kept their elbows off the table, which meant there would be more room for his own.

"Have you by chance heard anything about that wolf of yours, Kili?" Dori asked with his usual chipper politeness.

Truthfully, Kili had tried not to think of the wolf at all. He had busied himself as much as he could, which was easier said than done in the Last Homely House, it seemed. He could not hold back the deep set frown that creased his face at hearing Dori's question.

"No," Kili replied bluntly, "I haven't."

"That's too bad. Beautiful beast, she was."

"Wolf," Kili corrected.

Dori acknowledged his misstep. "Aye, a wolf. Not a beast."

Suddenly, there was a tugging at Kili's elbow and he twisted around to look at his brother. "What?"

Fili was the picture of typical picture of innocence as he shrugged. "What do you mean 'what?'"

"You nudged my elbow! What do you want?"

"I did not!"

The younger brother had opened his mouth to argue when he felt a similar tug at his elbow once more. Fili's hands still remained on the table, each sneaky finger accounted for. So, Kili turned and was surprised with what he saw standing behind him. It was a boy, not an elf, he noted with some relief, but a child of Men. During his time growing up in the villages of Men, he and Fili had played with children like the one who now had his attention; he had even called some of them friends until they had outgrown him, their age and maturity surpassing his own due to his dwarven heritage.

This one possessed a peculiar spark in his grey eyes that Kili recognized. It was familiar to him, for he and Fili and the other Men-children had shared it, and he found he could still easily relate to it.

Quirking one brow and grinning, Kili asked, "Looking for something, little Man?"

The child did not budge under Kili's attention. "You're supposed to have an axe. Dwarves carry axes, you know."

Kili's smile grew and he replied, "Indeed we do!" By this time, Fili had taken notice of the child and he, too, was watching the boy with an entertained gleam in his eyes that could hardly be disguised.

"Where's yours, then?" the child inquired regarding the missing weapon.

"Well, I didn't bring it to dinner of course!"

"Why not? You could cut meat with it."

"Now, there's an idea," Fili spouted with a dramatic snap of his fingers. He shifted on his seat and leaned down toward the boy in mock wonderment. "How can you stand it among all these elves? Surely, their wit must be lacking compared to yours."

The boy expelled a breath and folded his arms over his puffed out chest. "Mister dwarf, I ask myself that question a lot."

At the child's response, both brothers set to cackling with glee, slapping their knees and tossing their heads back, and it seemed that adoption was in the foreseeable future. At least it appeared that way until the boy's attention was drawn elsewhere. The child turned away from them and his sharp young eyes quickly landed on three figures that were approaching the patio. Lord Elrond was coming up the way, arm in arm with Orla, and beside them had appeared Gandalf, whose dingy grey robes had been especially cleaned for the gathering.

The boy had been momentarily forgotten in Kili's mind until he felt the child's pull at his shirt sleeve. He gifted the boy with his attention once more and was surprised to see the child's arm outstretched, a finger pointed toward the three people coming his way.

"Do you see her?" the boy whispered.

Indeed, Kili did see _her_. Where she had been all his life and why he had never met her before, Kili didn't know, but he would more than happily make her acquaintance now.

He only half heard the boy's voice as he spoke again. "I'm going to marry her when I'm a man, just you wait."

His eyes were still trained on the little woman, who possessed a fair enough face that it successfully sent his male mind to wondering, turning gears that hadn't been turned in quite a while. Some might not have found her beautiful, some might not even have found her pretty, but she looked like the sort that was easy to make laugh and easier to make smile. He had heard from some dwarves that they did not mind tall women and the fact that those women usually lacked beards more than made up for any difficulties presented from height differences. Forgetting himself for a moment, Kili bent low to the boy's ear and in a whisper, asked, "What's her name?"

"Orla, but that's not what I call her."

"What do you call her?"

The boy smiled and said, " _Draug'adaneth_. It means –"

But too soon the boy's translation was drowned out by Gandalf's as he called the dwarves' attention to Lord Elrond. Kili watched as the woman called Orla slipped from the elf's side and moved to stand near the railing of the patio, her back turned to the table of dwarves. Disinterested in the arrival of the Elf Lord, Kili elbowed his brother and nodded discretely to the woman that waited nearby.

Fili glanced at him. "What?"

"I'll bet you all the gold in my pocket that by tonight –"

"No!" Fili hissed, "Don't even go there, brother."

"Why not?"

"Because, I'm betting you all the gold _and_ silver in my pockets that I'll be –"

"You wouldn't," Kili seethed.

Fili, having successfully unsettled his younger brother, gave a triumphant smirk. "No, I wouldn't. And neither will you."

"You don't know what I was going to say!" Kili protested, looking convincingly abashed.

"What? By tonight you'll…tuck a flower into her hair? Sing her a song? Tickle'er …toes?"

Kili socked his brother right in the thigh, disguising the action as best he could between their bodies. Fili stifled a grunt of pain while Kili, having noticed the dangerous glares coming from the far end of the table, pretended to mind his own business.

They had only just filled their plates when Gandalf slipped away from his end of the table and went over to Orla, who had remained near the railing even as the child from earlier had gone to join her. The wizard placed a gentle hand on Orla's shoulder and whispered something to her so that she turned around to face the group of dwarves. Her small eyes went wide and she immediately started to shake her head, her wild, curly hair tossing this way and that. Her protests did little good and the wizard led her over and cleared his throat to call the dwarves to attention. While most of them quieted, few of them ceased shoveling food into their mouths long enough to pay the wizard and the woman much mind.

"Orla, may I introduce you the esteemed company of Thorin Oakenshield…once again."

Across the width of the table, Thorin's dark gaze looked up from his plate to acknowledge the woman for the first time. He showed little interest in her, looking over her once as a man would look at a suspicious bowl of gruel (or the way poor Bifur looked at cabbage). When he finally did look away, he seemed mostly unimpressed. However, he did pay more attention to the wizard's words, having caught them.

In a growling voice, one tired of humoring both elves and wizards, he asked, " _Again_? I do not recall seeing this woman before."

Gandalf clasp his hands in front of him diplomatically. "Ah, well you have. But perhaps it could also be said that you have _not_."

The future King under the Mountain frowned but chose to ignore the wizard's cryptic ways, having grown accustomed to - though no less irritated by - them since the journey had begun. He looked to Orla and asked gruffly, "What is a woman of Men doing in Rivendell?"

Beside Thorin, Dwalin was scowling with thinly veiled distrust, his eyes considerably less gentle than his leader's.

"An elf lover, no doubt," said the dwarf warrior under his breath.

If either Orla or Gandalf took offence at the dwarf's words, neither of them gave the slightest sign of it. As it was, both of them were rather fond of the elves, though neither thought it wise to tell Thorin such a thing.

"Oh, leave the lass alone, Dwalin," Balin called from nearby.

Dwalin seemed to consent to keeping any further comments to himself but his frown did not abate. Likewise, Thorin's thoughts had long since strayed from the girl and he was now being regaled against his wishes by Elrond, who had taken notice of the weapon Thorin had claimed from the troll hoard.

Balin took the opportunity to look back Orla and it was possible that he was the first to look upon her with genuine interest.

"I could not help but notice, lass, that there was a boy running about here somewhere. A fine young lad, strong. Yours no doubt?"

To that, Orla _did_ take offence. She gaped at the grey headed dwarf, a hand flying to her chest in animated horror and another went down to her belly, one that did not look as if had seen the trials of childbirth. Even Gandalf looked flustered at the dwarf's assumption concerning Estel. And flustering Gandalf was often quite a difficult thing to do.

A few seats down, Balin's comment had drawn someone else's notice. Kili laughed loudly, his head thrown back in a typical sign of his merriment. Orla watched him laugh and, while she did not find it an entirely unpleasant sight, she found herself wishing that she was a wolf in that moment so that she could bite him squarely on the ass just out of principle.

"No, no," Kili teased, taking his second wind as his laughter faded. He looked to Balin, reaching across the table to grab the old dwarf's arm, and then back to Orla, his face wide with an unabashedly bold grin. Winking once at her, he said, "You've got it wrong, Balin. The boy's her betrothed. At least, he claims as much."

Hearing the words as they left the mouth of the very special dwarf who she would make it a point not to save in the future, Orla snapped her head around to glare at Estel, who had taken to playing a game with his shadow in the courtyard beyond.

Balin shook his head. "A bit young for her, isn't he?" More quietly, he added, " _Tsk_ , the depravation of elves knows no bounds!"

At her side, Orla felt Gandalf's heavy expelled breath as it tickled against her hair. She echoed his sigh and let her head drop to her chest. Dealing with dwarves had been easier as a canine.

Giving her tender shoulder a pitying squeeze, Gandalf told her, "I'll leave you to them, Orla dear."

Whirling about to catch the old Maiar before he could waddle away in a swirl of grey cloth, Orla clinched him firmly around the arm. Vigorously, she shook her head.

_You wouldn't._

Gandalf could only chuckle as he pried her fingers from their grip. Patting her hand sympathetically, he wished her the very best of luck, along with the gravest of his condolences, before moving to leave her at the mercy of Thorin and Company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (very rough translations):
> 
> Draug'adaneth: roughly translated as "wolf-woman"
> 
> Ada: Father
> 
> Gaur: werewolf
> 
> ******************  
> Also, a word from your author. I apologize for the length:
> 
> 1) Feel free to skip this if it doesn't interest you. Several people have brought up the matter of Estel's age. I'm going to blow your minds with my crazy math skills while I try to explain this:
> 
> Ok, most everyone comes down on one side of this fence. From what I've read, Aragorn was born in 2931 and was under Elrond's care after 2933. The Hobbit's events take place in 2941, making him ten. If LoTR takes place around 3017-18, that puts him at 87. That's the timeline by numbers. That being said, the main discrepancy is that the LoTR takes place at a generally acknowledged 60 years before the Hobbit. What people don't realize, unless they're gigantic Tolkien nerds like me, is that the early events in LoTR (when we see Bilbo's 111th b-day party) takes place in 3001 (60 yrs after the Hobbit). The main events in the LoTR take place when Frodo leaves the Shire some 16-17 years later.
> 
> As such, if you aren't aware of this 3001/3017 fact, and you subtract 60 from Aragorn's accepted 87, that puts him in his twenties during the dwarves' visit to Rivendell. I blame PJ, given that his first LoTR film condenses Tolkien's timeline of 16-17 years into, say, one night. I hope this was helpful to any of you who were writing your own stories and were uncertain about Aragorn's age. Either is correct, it just depends on whether you want to accept movie or book –verse. I hope this helps some of you, particularly those who are writing your own LoTR/Hobbit stories who are incorporating Aragorn/Estel into it. Also, big thanks to reviewer SarcasticEnigma who brought this to my attention. If anyone ever notices something I've missed regarding lore, please don't be afraid to tell me about it!


	8. The Best Laid Plans

There were many attributes that came with being one of Beorn's Folk – strong hearts and bodies, bravery, quick to fight and quicker to laugh…but, to her ever growing consternation, Orla felt as if all of these characteristics had abandoned her along with Gandalf, leaving her at the mercy of a group of rowdy dwarves and elves too busy to notice her discomfort. Taking her seat among the company, Orla decided that she felt peculiarly out of place. As a wolf, she had not needed to worry about integrating herself with the stout warriors. She had simply avoided them until proving that she meant no harm, at which point most of them had continued to ignore her presence. That, however, was not the case currently.

As soon as she was seated, a flurry of questions went up around her, so quickly that she could not tell to whom each query belonged.

Someone asked, "Where are you from?"

"You a Breelander? _Hmph_."

"No, no! Her hair's not dark enough for a Breelander," another interjected, "Rohan maybe?"

"Not tall enough," someone observed.

_Eat_ , Orla willed them. _Stop talking._ It did not seem likely that they would do such a thing and, as such, she deemed it wisest to take a defensive path for the remainder of the meal. She kept a constant supply of food crammed between her jaws and was content to busy herself chewing and chewing while the dwarves yammered on around her. Kili's attention had been diverted for the moment thanks to Fili, who had given Orla an apologetic glance for his brother's flirtation.

Having taken her seat on the opposite side of the table from the dwarf in charge, Orla was able to keep a discreet eye on Thorin as he conversed with Lord Elrond. It did not surprise her when Thorin's attention had inevitably strayed from the elf-lord. What did surprise her, however, was that the dwarf prince refocused his gaze on her. His eyes, sharp and assessing, leveled on her, roving over her face and clothes. Finally, that blue gaze came to rest on her stiff shoulder, the one that was currently held askew, just a tad lower than her other so that it was noticeable. She saw the interest in Thorin's eyes grow to suspicion and knew at once that the future King Under the Mountain was not so daft as to be unable to put two and two together. Silently, she hoped that Thorin would not have heard the tales of the skin changers that had long inhabited the lands west of Erebor but she seriously doubted that she would be so lucky. Still, there was a chance that, for all Thorin's perceptiveness, his mind would not immediately draw him to so strange a conclusion.

His eyes narrowed and his voice was gravelly though not impolite as he called across the table to her. "You hold yourself as if you are in pain."

Orla raised an eyebrow before reflexively rolling her shoulder, the joint aching painfully at the slow motion. She winced and for all her bearing could not prevent the pained expression from glancing across her face. Yes, she was in pain.

Thorin frowned. "It is deep within the muscle, I can tell as much. How does a woman come to be injured so?"

Orla could only sigh. She had no desire to test Thorin's patience with her silence. Instead, she looked to Lord Elrond, who was watching the exchange with a barely perceptible look of amusement and curiosity.

_Tell him._ Another raised eyebrow marked Orla's unspoken request _. But only a little._

To anyone less observant, the acquiescent twitch of elf-lord's lips would have been easily missed. Elrond spoke, drawing Thorin's attention once more. "It was an arrow wound. I healed her as well as my skill allowed, though against my advice she has chosen to forgo a day's bed-rest. No doubt the stress has aggravated the shoulder."

Orla dared not mistake Thorin's ensuing hum as one that might mark him as being impressed. If anything, the dwarf seemed mildly annoyed. His eyes flashed back to Orla and he asked, "Why did you not say so?"

Elrond spared the human woman once again and explained, "Rarely does Orla speak. Rarer still does she actually answer one's questions," he made no effort to hide the disapproving frown he sent her way, "One has to learn to read her thoughts in her eyes."

Thorin mulled on this for a moment, his eyes lingering on Orla's, which hardened some against his scrutiny. "I have heard," Thorin began slowly, "that the eyes do not lie. They can be trusted even when the speaker cannot."

Suddenly, he shifted forward in his seat, leaning his chest over the table so as to get a better look at the grey pair that looked back at him. His own eyes narrowed beneath the pinch of his bushy black brows and for the first time Orla got a good, long look at the sadness that the dwarf hid so well. Her heart hurt for him in that moment and she tried not to flinch from it, for she dared not let him mistake her look for one of pity.

It seemed that he did not, as he said, "Yours are familiar to me."

"Careful," a new voice warned Orla suddenly, full of foreboding so genuine that it had surely taken great amounts of practice. "That's the look he gives someone when they've got food in their teeth."

Fighting a sigh of relief, Orla looked away from Thorin to the new speaker and found that Kili had decided to bid for her attention once more. Having spared her from Thorin's examination, Orla immediately decided that any debt Kili owed to her was paid in full. Regardless, she now had a new dwarf to contend with and she was not at all pleased for it, even if Kili was decidedly less formidable than his uncle.

Beside him, Fili swatted the younger dwarf roughly across the shoulder. "Don't be a ponce. The lady doesn't have food in her teeth."

"No, but you do," Kili snapped, rubbing his stinging arm.

It was most certainly time to leave, Orla decided. She had eaten her fill and her stomach was no longer growling obnoxiously to the tune of the birds in the trees. Politely, she inclined her head to Lord Elrond and then to Thorin, who, rather suspiciously for her tastes, went so far as to return the gesture. Fleeing the table before the two brothers or any of the other dwarves could say one more word to her, Orla left the balcony behind her. So swift was her retreat that she took no notice of the scowl that shadowed the youngest dwarf's face as recognition of the dark leather that graced the woman's back took hold of him and did not leave his mind for the rest of the meal.

.

* * *

.

It was quiet, blessedly so. Away from the dwarves, Orla felt the calming atmosphere of Rivendell settle on her once again. She could appreciate the lives the elves led within their valley refuge. There were no clanking hammers like those that might have been heard in dwarven cities, nor were there loud, dirty streets like those that belonged to Men, but there was an odd staleness to the air. It was hard to notice but it was there, nonetheless. Something – magic, perhaps, Orla did not claim to know – held the elven refuge suspended in time, as utterly untouched and unchanging as those who dwelled there. No harsh weather, no predators, no prey…

It made Orla's hands itch.

A few more days and she would be ready to move on, to retreat back to _her_ sanctuary. She desired to roam once more the hills and forests, the ever changing landscapes. Perhaps, she thought, she would go north to Forochel to see the sea.

Either way, she and the dwarves would part ways. Their destiny lay elsewhere and hers, well, perhaps it would be simplest to say that Orla did not believe she had one. Not a great one, at least, which suited her just fine. Her legs needed to be stretched, her eyes needed new sights, her lungs fresh air. She only needed the world, not riches or a kingdom and throne. The dwarves could have those things. She would wish them the very best. And though it would grieve her heart should she hear in the future that they had failed, she would go on. But each and every one of them she would remember.

She had not followed the twisting pathways for long when she spied a figure from the corner of her eye – a lady elf she had not seen before. For a moment, Orla stood unmoving, her eyes holding fast to the elf. The human found the other woman beautiful, more so than any other elf she had ever seen, and alongside that beauty, pulsing subtly through the calm air like a tidal current, was power like Orla had never before felt. Lord Elrond, for all his wisdom, came a distant second to the elf that stood some distance away. For the briefest of moments, Orla opened her mouth to call out, so swept up was she in the appearance of the elf. Her nature caught up with her though and her jaw snapped shut before a single sound was uttered. However, she need not have bothered.

It was then that the elf turned in a swirl of fine cloth and silver-gold hair and focused her timeless gaze on the mortal who stood watching. For several long moments the two watched each other, one with awe and the other with curious passivity.

Finally, with a voice hardly above a whisper, the she-elf spoke. "You are far from home, Beorning."

Orla did not bother to nod in the affirmative. Judging from the gleam in the elf's eye, she already knew the statement to be true. She stretched out a long, slender hand, one that had never seen calluses or cracks, and beckoned Orla forward wordlessly.

"Your kind is not unknown to me," the elf told Orla quietly, her grey eyes shining in such a way that even Orla could not judge their intent. "You were born with a great gift but you…bear it with a heavy heart."

The elf frowned, a miniscule expression that seemed foreign against her impossibly fair features. Her eyes were soft as they looked upon Orla and in their depths they bore a knowledge that nearly caused the human to balk and turn away, knowing that anything reflected within them may be taken as truth.

_And Thorin only thought his gaze was a weighty one_ , Orla thought. _He has naught on this elf_.

Steadying herself from the pull of the elf woman's gaze, Orla found it within herself to shake her head. No, she did not regret her gift and never would she.

"It has cost you much, has it not?" There was no accusation in the lovely creature's voice. She tilted her head slightly, as if to show curiosity that had long been surpassed by her age. Or perhaps it was pity, Orla could not tell and her inability to do so unsettled her. Without her command, one foot slid back in retreat before Orla could regain control of herself.

She shook her head again. _No, my gift has cost me nothing_.

There had been… _circumstances_ brought on by her form and the temper that came with it but those events were far in the past. Orla had not thought on them for a long, _long_ time, not since she had left her father's lands.

Tenderly, the elf reached out and with a single finger, traced the square curve of Orla's jaw, her finger traveling over skin as it would over the lines on a page. It was a searching, inquisitive gesture and Orla could not bring herself to flee from it.

"A home," spoke the elf, "flesh and blood…yet, you are all the braver for it," said the elf softly, more to herself as an observation than in commendation to Orla.

Her eyes roamed over Orla once more before she smiled warmly. The apples of her cheeks budded with a rosy glow against her porcelain skin and Orla could not help but feel that whatever lingering curiosity the elf may have possessed was tucked away beneath the calm control. If there had been a test, Orla had passed it.

There was a quiet shuffling behind them and Orla turned to see that Gandalf had arrived. His hands were clasped in front of him and he appeared to be watching the scene with no small amount of interest.

"It would seem, Orla, that your escape from the clutches of Thorin and Company has led you to Lady Galadriel of Lo̒rien."

_Indeed._ Orla cut her eyes at the old Maiar.

With a small but polite bow toward the Lady, Gandalf came to stand beside Orla. He placed a hand against her shoulder.

"Have you said your goodbyes?

"Goodbyes?" Galadriel marked quietly. "Do you not wish to accompany the dwarves on their quest?"

Orla shook her head. Gently, she placed her hand to her hurt shoulder and tapped it once.

Perhaps, had it not been the Lady Galadriel, the elf would have murmured in sympathy or acknowledgement of the wound but the ancient creature merely continued to study Orla. The odd gleam in her eyes had returned and a discomforting feeling like that felt by a flightless bird being cornered by a cat settled over Orla. She shifted uncomfortably before turning her eyes pleadingly to the Grey Wizard at her side.

_Help_?

But Gandalf paid her not attention. He was focused solely on the White Lady of Lo̒rien.

"What have you foreseen?" he asked.

Galadriel's silver gaze had yet to leave Orla, even as she replied to the wizard's query. "The choice to follow is hers, Mithrandir. Fate will come to pass, regardless."

Orla's brow furrowed, revealing both her uncertainty and frustration, feelings which had sharpened upon hearing the elf's words.

Quietly, though not so much as to be meek, Orla voiced a single question. "What fate?"

At this, the Lady smiled and this time there was warmth such that Orla's uneasiness slowly began to whither back into the crack it had sprung from.

"I cannot say for certain, dear daughter of the Anduin, for the knowledge of what lies ahead for Durin's Folk is not mine to know."

She took a long, lithe step backward, floating more than walking, and settled in place just beyond the human woman's reach. Orla met the ancient gaze with her own and found herself lost there, her own short lifetime of experience drowning amidst the depths she saw in those eyes.

_The choice_ , Galadriel repeated _, is yours_. For a moment, Orla was certain the elf had spoken, for she heard the words so clearly it was as if they had been said aloud. But, there was more to the White Lady than met the eye, and Orla realized that the elf was in her head as surely as her own mind.

A pair of raised brows met the elf's statement, with her lips jerking down severely as she thought. Despite appearances, despite the glossy surface of the words, she sensed something else there – a quiet but undeniable urging.

But she was no fighter, no warrior dwarf or elf, no ranger. She was woman and wolf, born of the Anduin and raised of the world. She was brave and loyal but not foolhardy. For ten years since her seventeenth summer she had survived on her own by knowing precisely when and where to draw her lines. And yet something traitorous within her began to wriggle and squirm and whisper, despite her wishes, that she was not yet done with Thorin and the others.

Keen for some sort of guidance, she looked to the Grey Wizard, who told her, "It is a long road that lies ahead of Thorin and his troop. And I'll not ask you to tread it with them."

Orla cast her eyes down to the floor. She could do nothing to benefit Thorin and his dwarves. Each and every one of them was capable and loyal; their paths would not waver from their king's and that alone would provide strength she could not. But one walked among them that needed someone to look after him when Gandalf and the rest could not.

Orla scuffed her toe against the ground. Her expression was soft, concerned, when she looked back to Gandalf.

_The halfling?_

Her countenance spoke volumes for her as usual. "Mr. Baggins is more resourceful than anyone gives him credit for. He will persevere, however vocal he might be while going about it."

"But why the hobbit, Mithrandir?" Galadriel asked softly.

Orla nodded at this. She had wondered as much herself since the journey had started. With a small smile, one full of fondness, Gandalf gave them their answer. "Perhaps it is because I am afraid and he gives me courage."

The wizard's answer satisfied and reassured Orla. Releasing a heavy breath, Orla accepted Gandalf's words as truth. The hobbit and the dwarves _would_ go on, they _would_ persevere to the very end. But she would have no part in it. It was her choice, as Galadriel had made clear, and despite whatever thoughts the elf tried to impress on her, Orla made her own decision.

She shook her head solemnly. _I will not go_. This is what her eyes told the wizard when they found him.

The niggling in her gut grew but she forced it back down from whence it came. Her part in the story was played. Now, her life awaited her far, far away from Erebor and the Lonely Mountain. She left both the White Lady and the Grey Wizard behind her; though with her back turned from them, she did not have the good fortune to witness the knowing smiles that were shared between the two of them as they watched her go.

.

* * *

.

Rivendell nights were some of the quietest Orla had ever experienced. There were none of the typical night sounds that one would hear in the forests or plains. There was only the slow, melodic trickle of water against stone; it was a sound that Orla could not escape no matter to which corner of the elven refuge she wondered. After speaking with Gandalf and the Lady Galadriel, Orla had spent the rest of the day with one of Rivendell's foremost healers, an elf whose name she did not know but whose healing hands she was grateful for anyway. Another poultice had been applied to her shoulder and the wound rewrapped and soon the healer had sent her away with the same advice Elrond had given her.

She was told, " _Stay in bed_ ," but she once again ignored the advice and took it upon herself to continue her exploration of the elven city. For a long time, she lingered near the dwarves, out of sight but not out of hearing. Thorin and Balin had disappeared, being whisked away with Bilbo alongside Gandalf for what Orla suspected was a meeting with Lord Elrond. The elf would surely have questions and they would not be easily – much less _willingly_ – answered if Thorin had anything to say about it.

So it was that Orla found herself lost along the Rivendell's pathways just as the sun was beginning to set. She made no immediate effort to redirect herself toward her room and was content to enjoy the night air and the cool, breezy embrace that danced down from the clouds above.

Alone, her thoughts strayed to the Bay of Forochel in the north and the banks of Nenuial Lake, which she had not seen for several seasons. She figured that she could leave Rivendell behind her and travel westwards to Nenuial before turning up toward the chilly shores of Forochel. Perhaps, when she had seen those, she would go west toward the mountains of Ered Luin. _Yes_ , she decided, _that is a sound plan_. If the dwarves were lucky and held a safe and steady path, they might reach Esgaroth and the Long Lake by the time she was able to reach Forochel. Though the Ice-bay was remote, the tribes there would hopefully bear some news of the dwarves' success, should there be any. Until then, she would simply have to wonder and wish them well.

Her future path then decided, she thought it best to retire. It was then, just as she turned to begin the winding path back to her quarters, that she heard voices carry up from a nearby bend in the trail. She recognized one of them immediately, for it was the loudest. Estel seemed to have found someone to talk to despite it being well past his bed time. A few moments later, a second voice followed in response to Estel's and Orla was surprised to place it as belonging to the princeling. He must have taken Thorin's absence as an opportunity to explore.

Quietly, Orla approached the two speakers, eager to learn of whatever mischief was almost certainly brewing between them. She did not miss Estel's repeated mention of his name for her – _draug'adaneth_.

"But was does it mean?" Kili was asking the child, his voice pitched mildly with frustration.

Estel replied bluntly, "It's my name for her!"

"I'm not looking for _her_!" Kili protested. "I'm looking for the –"

"Wolf! You already said so." Orla heard Estel clap his hands together, his own irritation bubbling over.

She heard Kili sigh loudly and suspected he had his head hung low. It was all too easy to lose a battle of wills against young Estel, though she would have expected someone like Kili to fare a bit better. She barely caught his words as he muttered, "Durin's beard, it's like dealing with Fili all over again."

"Fili? Your brother?" Estel had not missed this. "His beard is longer than yours, you know."

Orla would not have thought it possible for Kili to be rendered into a sputtering mess so easily but sputter he certainly did. "I…But – He's older!"

"Not by much it seems. Bet I'll have a beard before you do."

"That's –"

Orla thought it best she interject before one or both of the speakers brought tears to the other's eyes. She stepped around the bend and cleared her throat, her hand rising to her mouth to cover the sound.

"There you are, _draug'adaneth_!" Estel exclaimed. "The dwarf was looking for you."

Kili grumbled and snapped, "I was looking for the _wolf_."

He turned to Orla. Standing, the top of his head just did reach her chin and he had to tilt his head up just slightly to look her in the eyes. "Have you seen the creature? Fair of fur, unusually large for a wolf?" he asked, running a hand through his messy hair. "She was brought in when we arrived."

Orla didn't much hear the last part, too busy was she taking offence to the words "unusually large."

"With an arrow wound?" Estel mumbled, the phrase both a question and statement of fact.

"Aye."

" _Draug'adaneth_ has an arrow wound. Don't you?" Estel's small hand came up to tug at Orla's elbow and she grimaced as the action caused her shoulder to twinge painfully. There was no need to nod in response to the child's question. The rascal's gesture had already revealed as much to the watching dwarf.

"I didn't realize you were injured," Kili said, eyes flashing to Orla who waved a hand at him dismissively.

_I'm fine_.

"Orcs?"

Orla nodded once. His next question came as no surprise. "How did you get away?"

As was her way, she said nothing, crossing her arms instead with a look that all but told him to figure it out himself. Kili saw this and scratched his head awkwardly, his fingers ruffling through his dark hair roughly. "Don't say much, do you?"

"Not to you," Estel chirped, proudly folding his arms over his chest as he stuck his dimpled chin out boldly.

Kili only grinned smugly, not one to be outdone as he said, "I don't have much to say to a woman while in the presence of children. Chew on that for a time, little Man."

This sent poor Estel's cheeks to burning and his mouth opened and closed several times over before Orla's protective hand came down on top of his shoulder. Her mind was officially made up - if she ever encountered Kili while in her wolf form _ever_ again, she would bite him. No questions asked.

Orla pinned Kili with the filthiest and most potent of her substantial array of dirty looks, one that would bode no foolish reply. It seemed, however, that the dwarf saw something within her eyes that startled him because his brows pinched into a straight line and his mouth grew firm. His eyes did not leave hers as they searched, looking at her much like one looks at a person they are trying desperately recognize.

"Your eyes are grey…" Kili murmured, frowning.

"Lots of eyes are grey," Estel snapped. The pinching squeeze Orla was giving his shoulder may or may not have prompted his interruption.

His curiosity not quite satisfied, the dwarf caught himself before saying anything else. Shaking his head, he waved his hand at the two humans. "Nothing, it's nothing. A fool's notion."

Orla's shoulder's rose and fell in response, forgiving him for an accusation that remained unspoken. Beside her, Estel rested his head against the curve of her waist and yawned. She stroked a maternal hand through his hair, sending the dark locks of hair splaying out against the leather of her coat. Kili, who had previously watched the moment unfold with some amount of envy, suddenly moved as if he'd just been struck by a great revelation.

Bold in the midst of his thoughts, he reached out with deft fingers and caught the edge of Orla's coat. Estel watched the dwarf through suspicious eyes, ready to defend Orla's honor at a moment's notice should those fingers stray somewhere which they were not welcome. For her part, the woman had gone still, her arm tightening around the boy and her back straightening.

"This coat…where did you get it? I saw it at dinner." The eyes that had previously been flirtatious in their study her were now narrowed and sharp. "I know this coat! I woke up with it!"

Estel, for all the innocence of his youth, believed he knew a slight against a woman when he heard one and he drew in an angry breath before raising his chin and stepping between Orla and the dwarven lecher that held her.

"Take that back –"

But Orla was already pulling the boy back to her side, a soothing hand squeezing his young arm as she coaxed him into calmness once more.

Kili had the decency to blush rather furiously and released Orla's coat immediately. "Forgive me, my lady. But, put a lad's mind at ease and answer a question if you will – you haven't by chance been out near the river to the west, have you?"

Orla paled and shook her head quickly. Indeed, she looked so innocent in that moment that a more foolish man might have gathered that she had never before been west at all, much less seen any rivers that may or may not lie in that direction.

"No? No rivers?"

_No, no rivers._

"Not to the west?"

_Regretfully, still no._

"You're absolutely sure?"

Orla nodded convincingly enough.

Taking a step back, Kili appeared to concede to her ignorance. "As you say then, my lady." The sigh of relief Orla breathed proved premature. She should have known that the princeling would not be so easily foiled in his interrogation, as no sooner had that relieved exhalation escaped than did the dwarf once again step forward and ask, "How about Kingsfoil? Know anything about Kingsfoil? Anything at -"

"A gift, mister dwarf," Estel's lie was sudden and came forth with surprising ease, " _Ada_ gave it to Orla this morning."

Orla tried not to let her surprise show on her face. She had not thought the boy would be so aware of the situation as to actually make an excuse for her. Kili looked momentarily disappointed but he shed the feeling with a roll of his shoulders.

"My mistake," he offered easily as a placating hand gestured over his heart.

Orla didn't believe his acceptance for a minute but she did not wish to be antagonized further so she let the matter be. Removing her hand from Estel's shoulder, she stepped away and instead offered it to the child. Estel was happy to do so, smiling triumphantly at the dwarf as he twined his small fingers around Orla's palm. Having captured him, Orla looked down at the boy, one eyebrow raised in an expression that only means one thing to a child: _bedtime._

" _Draug'adaneth_!"

_It's late._

"Orla, please!"

"You're sure she's not your mother?" Kili quipped, looking amused by the development that had not gone in the little menace's favor.

Two sets of grey eyes flashed at him then and he quickly withdrew his statement. "Sorry, sorry. Mind if I tag along? It doesn't seem as if I'll have much luck finding my friend tonight."

Orla nodded and Estel bit his lip to hide his scowl. Together the three set off back in the direction of the dwarf camp and the rest of the sleeping quarters. It did not take Kili long to find his next question, his previous exchange with the other two forgotten for now. Soon, he asked, "What does draga'neth mean, anyway?"

" _Draug'adaneth_ ," Estel corrected with a disinterested huff.

"Right. Well?"

Estel glanced up at the woman who walked alongside him and when he saw the faint shake of her head, he told the dwarf, "That, mister dwarf, is a secret."

"I can keep a secret."

"Orla doesn't think you can."

"Orla," Kili paused to glare pointedly at the human woman who continued to ignore him, "hasn't said a word."

Estel chirped, "You're just not paying attention to her. She says plenty." That earned him a favored pat on the back from the woman in question.

Kili only grumbled and continued to walk along in silence.

"Dwarf," Estel eventually said as they made their way up a set of stairs. "When are you leaving?"

"Why? Going to miss me?" Kili retorted with a grin.

Even Orla gave a snort at the reply and as such, Estel promptly snatched his hand from hers. Kili watched the display, his lips turned upward slightly so that he had to cover his grin with the back of his hand.

"Tomorrow or the day after. Thorin is ready to be rid of this place."

"Will it be a very long adventure?" Estel sounded almost wistful.

Orla glanced down at the dwarf near her side and met his eyes. There she saw hope and excitement, all muddled up with anxiety. Kili was not the fool some believed him to be, Orla herself had witnessed as much, but he was young and the weight of what lay in store for he and his kin had not worn on him yet.

"Yes," he replied eventually, "I suspect it will be."

Orla saw it as the dwarf's eyes softened at Estel's jealous frown and she suspected he saw some sort of kindred spirit there. Likely, Kili and his brother had grown up with tales of their uncle surrounding them and now they had finally been given the chance to embark on their own quest for glory and at Thorin's side, no less. Kili slowed his walk until he fell behind Orla and drifted over to Estel's side, where he nudged the child gently with his elbow.

"A lad like you? You'll have an adventure of your own one day."

"Well," sighed Estel, "I don't expect to stay in Imladris forever."

Both Orla and Kili smiled at the child's proclamation, glancing at each other as if gauge the other's reaction.

"What?" Kili asked, looking at her. She only shook her head and turned her eyes back to the path. Eventually, they came to the staircase that led down to where Thorin had set camp.

Kili sighed, his steps coming to a stop, and he said, "I suppose I best get some rest in case Uncle orders us out by the morning. It's a long trek through the Misty Mountains, or so I hear."

Before he could turn away, Orla caught hold of the dwarf's arm. _Have you not traveled the path before?_

Kili must have read the alarm on her face well enough because he seemed to gather the general meaning of her expression.

"Why, is that concern, fair lady?" he asked with a lopsided grin, his eyes traveling down to look at the hand that still held fast to his elbow. Orla released him with a grumble but crossed her arms as she awaited an answer to her question.

"I've skirted the borders before but Thorin and Balin believe we'll save time if we travel the mountain paths."

Orla's brows rose until they could not be seen for the tangle of curls across her forehead. She motioned to her wounded shoulder, one side of her mouth raised in disgust at the thought of the creature that had caused the injury.

"Orcs and goblins, yes, I know." Kili's naivety was showing brightly as he added, "We'll take care of whatever decides it wants to fall on our blades."

This was coming from the dwarf she had taken an arrow for? Running a hand through her hair in frustration, Orla shook her head. Even Estel seemed wary of the idea; the child knew well of the goblins that inhabited the Misty Mountains. Orla had assumed that at the very least the dwarves would take the long way around. Surely, their journey was not so urgent as to brave the heights of the Misty Mountains.

Kili's ignorance, Orla could understand. But Thorin's? Or any of the other elders? No, they were being foolish. There were paths that were better left untraveled when it came to the Misty Mountains. It was always best to take the longer route, for if one came upon trouble high atop those distant grey peaks, there would be no friendly hand to help. The only hands that would find a traveler there were mottled and wart-covered and all they were good for was throttling the innocent in their sleep.

Orla had learned that the hard way. She had not been long departed from her father's lands and had ignored the warnings she had heard throughout her childhood about the Mountains. It had been dark and cold, the sort of coldness that seeps into the bones and does not leave for days no matter how warm the fire. She had fallen asleep in an alcove, sheltered from the storms that raged outside and unaware of the danger that lurked in the shadows of the rocks. The goblins had fallen on her in swarms, masses of them sent out to capture just one lone girl (she dared not think of what they would send out for a group of thirteen dwarves). She had awoken to one creature's knife digging dangerously deep into the skin of her throat while several others had laid themselves upon her legs and arms. The only thing that had saved her was her unique ability; she had shifted, her human form changing under the goblins' slippery grips while they squealed and cursed. Only then had she bounded away, her paws carrying her across the jagged cliffs until they were bloody. It had been a small price to pay to leave the goblins behind.

During the following trips she made through the mountains, she had been wiser. She had learned the paths well, braving them despite her better judgment, partially out of the desire to know the Mountains as well as she knew the woods. Though she had eventually learned the paths, she still preferred the longer route around the edges of the Misty Mountains, or through the valleys if she must.

"What's that look there?" Kili asked suddenly. "You look like you want to say something."

Orla, though, only answered with a sigh and took a step backward. She doubted there was anything she could say that would convince Kili, not to mention his uncle, not to take those cursed paths.

"Orla?" Estel called her name quietly, having also noticed the look on her face.

With only a quick parting nod to the dwarf, Orla left him standing there as she took Estel's hand once more and retreated along the illuminated paths where he could not follow.

.

* * *

.

All through the night she worked, tracing and drawing and scribbling until she didn't think Elrond had any more maps of the Misty Mountains to spare. Certain paths, as her rough sketches illustrated, were better than others. Notes here and there told of safe alcoves and sheltered paths that would shield the dwarves from the weather and denizens of the Mountains. Eventually, her shoulder began to ache from being propped atop a writing desk all night and it was not until early morning that Orla gave it rest. She folded the finished the maps and tucked them into a leather satchel for safe keeping. She would give them to Thorin herself but first she would show them to Gandalf.

She put her cloths on once more, having tossed them aside in her hurry to get to work the night before. Boots, britches, mithril shirt, and coat all went on in flurry as Orla rushed out the door in a blur of leather and blonde curls. Her feet carried her down the stairs two at time and she hurried along until she saw the dwarf camp. Or rather what was left of it.

She slid to a halt, boots scuffing against the smooth floor, and her face twisted up in a horribly put off expression that most would have deemed extremely unattractive. _Dwarves_ , she thought hotly, _stupid, impatient, stubborn dwarves!_

Satchel in hand, she was not yet deterred as she resumed her hurried gait again. With long, loping strides – well, perhaps Bilbo would have considered them long and loping – Orla rushed through the paths of Rivendell, getting turned around once or twice but eventually finding her way to the edge of the elven city just in time to see the very last dwarf disappear around the far corner of the paths leading into the Misty Mountains…and further away from Rivendell.

Orla groaned, her head falling back miserably as her grip loosened on the satchel full of maps she had pained all night long over.

"Orla?"

A familiar voice called to her and she turned to see Elrond standing nearby with Estel at his side. Gandalf, too, was with them but his eyes were well hidden under the brim of his pointed hat. This was just as well because if they had not been, Orla would have seen the wizard's eyes twinkling as they did whenever one of his schemes unfolded in the desired fashion.

Orla pointed at the paths leading out of Imladris, her finger jabbing out with the tell-tale early morning frustration she felt at having worked for all night for naught. She shook the satchel and then tossed it unceremoniously at Gandalf who caught it against the bulk of his grey robes.

"What are these, Orla dear?" the old Maiar asked as he tugged at the clasp on the little leather pouch. He freed the parchment from its confines and unfolded it to better study what had been written upon it. Elrond inclined his head to get a better look as well, a single eyebrow arching when he saw the detail that had been put into each map.

"Are those…the maps from my library?" the elf-lord asked suddenly, as aghast as it was possible for one such as Elrond to be. He realized that they were and turned shocked eyes on the human woman, who had wisely chosen to look elsewhere for the moment. "They are!"

Gandalf could not hold back the deep chuckle that erupted from his belly as he gently refolded the maps and tucked them safely back into the satchel.

"You saw fit to do Thorin and Company one last favor, I see," he said, "Which is all well and good, if only they had not left so early."

Hands on her hips, Orla eyed the old wizard suspiciously. _This is your fault_ , she glared at him accusingly. _Wizard! Old goat! Curse you thrice on Sunday! 'Tis **your** fault_.

She turned her glare to Estel, who had until now, been grinning broadly at the idea of his Ada's precious maps having been defaced for the sake of a few dwarves.

_You…you rascal! You could have warned me they were leaving!_ The child quickly paled when he saw that the wolf-woman's gaze had landed on him and he took a retreating step backwards to hide as best he could amidst the folds of Elrond's robes.

Looking back to Gandalf, Orla managed to collect her temper long enough to express a pressing question. _Why have you not gone with them?_

"I will rejoin them in a few days. I have business to conclude here."

_I did not get to say goodbye_. Her formally heated gaze had cooled significantly into something that was akin to disappointment.

"Well, then go say your farewells! Though, it's best if you take these maps with you. I doubt they will do Lord Elrond any further good given -"

"Given what you've done to them," Elrond glowered.

Orla winced and inclined her head to the elf respectfully, for all the good it did. _My apologies._ She did not, however, make a move to leave.

Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully, tugging at the grey hairs under his chin, before saying, "If you fear the trials of the Misty Mountains, Orla, I believe you've a ways to go yet. You have time to see that Thorin receives your final gift."

The human woman wavered and glanced back over her shoulder to the paths that led away from Imladris. It would only take her half an hour to reach the dwarves if she hurried. Another half hour to get back and she could be back before lunch. After that, she would have plenty of time to prepare for her own departure.

It seemed a sound plan. Then again, all plans generally seem sound until they go awfully wrong.


	9. A Gift Wolf

The fact that he was well rested and well fed did not make the going easier for Bilbo on the new leg of the journey. The narrow paths they traveled were steep and to make matters worse, they had not yet crossed into the Misty Mountains. The valley of Imladris was not far behind them, thankfully, and they would remain safe for the next day or so until Rivendell and its borders were in the distance. Despite this knowledge, Bilbo did not feel a single bit better. Hobbits were not mountain -faring folk and it went against his grain to stomp round and round over rocks and crags. He not once opened his mouth to complain, however, and whenever the mood to do so did actually strike him, he thought back to the beauty of Rivendell and the elves and though the images left him wistful, he felt renewed once more.

The dwarves pushed on, their steps quick as they hurried away from the elven sanctuary they were eager to leave behind. Thorin ordered them along, always glancing back over his shoulder with narrowed eyes and heavy brows as if he expected to see elven guards riding up behind them to round them up again and march them back to Rivendell. Bilbo had been there when Thorin and Elrond had had a meeting of their mighty minds and neither seemed any fonder towards the other for it. He wished silently that Gandalf had at least come along with them but the old wizard had stayed behind with the promise to meet up with them in a few days.

"Don't look so sad, Mr. Bilbo," one of the dwarves called over their shoulder to the hobbit. Bilbo looked up from the path and saw that it was Bofur who had spoken. This came as no great surprise, as Bofur, more so than the others, kept a watchful eye over Bilbo most of the time. "You're starting to look like the young one, lagging back there with your eyes downcast and nose all red from weeping."

"I am not weeping," Bilbo bit back, sounding more indignant than he actually felt.

From just behind him, he heard Kili call, "Nor I!"

Bilbo turned his head back around to look at the youngest dwarf and found that it was true; Kili had not been weeping, which was not a great surprise in all honesty, but he was being oddly quiet and that in itself was enough to set a hobbit like Bilbo to worrying.

He opened his mouth to inquire further about the dwarf's odd mood but Kili pointed a finger directly at Bilbo's nose, his eyes sharp with warning, and told him bluntly not to ask anything along the lines of, " _Whatever is the matter_ ," or even " _Are you alright_ ," because he had heard such questions at least twenty different times since setting out from Rivendell earlier that morning. If he should hear either of the two once more, he persisted, he would just have to sock the unfortunate person who did the asking right in the nose and seeing as how small Bilbo was, he did not particularly want to do such a thing.

Bilbo nodded his head hurriedly, having heard all this, though it was less out of fear of being hit and more because he knew exactly how the dwarf felt. Countless times now Bilbo had heard the exact same questions and they certainly had worn thin for him and he wasn't even a dwarf. The walk went on like this for some time with few dwarves speaking and fewer still speaking to Kili or Bilbo.

"How far to the edges of the mountains?" Gloin called after another mile of walking.

The perpetual thorn in his side, Oin, fired back before anyone could answer. "We've already crossed into the mountains, or haven't ye noticed?"

"To the edge of the elves territory! How far te' that is what I'm asking."

"Oh, well why didn't ye say so?"

For a moment, Bilbo feared that Gloin might actually shove the hearing-impaired Oin right over the cliff side but Thorin interjected in time to prevent such a tragedy. "The elves are too fearful to allow goblins anywhere near their borders. It will be a while yet. A day or so, perhaps."

The company forged on, their pace never slowing even as the path began to curve higher into the mountains ahead. Little was said but when the wind blew just right, a softly sung tune or two would be carried back from the lips of one dwarf to the ears of another. It was over one of these slow, steady melodies that Bilbo first noticed the footsteps. Well, he noted the sounds did not seem to be footsteps really so much as the soft knocking of rocks as if gravel was moving underfoot. It was no surprise that the others had not heard this; Bilbo had barely noticed it and his ears were sharper than those of the dwarves.

Should he call out to Thorin? Warn him? _Surely it could not be goblins_ , Bilbo reasoned, _not this close to Imladris, not in the daytime_. Thorin himself had said as much. Gandalf then, perhaps? _Not so soon._ After floundering back and forth mentally for a bit, Bilbo finally decided to turn to Kili and ask.

The hobbit whispered, "Don't make a scene, now, but I think someone is following us."

Kili quirked an eyebrow at Bilbo's undue request but quickly thought better of it and restrained any retorts that sprung to mind. Instead, after thinking for a moment, he suggested, "An elf?"

"I don't believe so. Would they follow us? Did we leave something behind?" Momentarily panicked, the hobbit's small hands dove into the pockets of his waistcoat to make sure he had not forgotten his handkerchiefs. _No_ , he thought as he sighed with relief, _still there_.

Kili ignored him as he did this and slowly the dwarf's steps began to grow shorter and slower as he allowed the distance between himself and the line of dwarves to spread.

"What are you doing?" Bilbo demanded quietly.

He looked back over his shoulder, worried that the others would get too far ahead. It did not immediately occur to him that such a large group of dwarves really did not have anywhere to go other than forward.

"Wait and see, master hobbit. Now, get behind that rock there." Kili pointed to a conveniently hobbit-sized bolder jutting out onto the path.

"No!"

"Do it!"

Kili threw himself back against the rock face, pressing as close to it as he could given his pack and bulky arrow quiver. They had only just rounded a bend in the path and Bilbo supposed the rash young dwarf hoped to use this to his advantage and take the approaching stranger by surprise. He wondered again if perhaps he should call out to the others but after a meaningful (and mildly threatening) glance from Kili, Bilbo reluctantly ducked behind his assigned boulder.

Several long moments passed as the approaching footsteps drew nearer. Bilbo quickly ruled out Gandalf as a suspect simply because there was no way the old wizard would have maintained such a quiet pace. Similarly, he suspected goblins would have sounded more…scrabbly, even though he had never been unfortunate enough to actually hear such creatures before. The oncoming footsteps were too quiet, too precise to be anything other than an elf.

Bilbo opened his mouth to warn Kili of this, unwilling to watch the licking the dwarf would likely face if he jumped an elf but it was too late. Kili sprung just as the figure rounded the corner. He reached up to grab a fistful of collar and cloth and with a triumphant holler he hauled the stranger against the rock face. A loud growl went up, bubbling up from somewhere – surely not the person Kili had apprehended – and Bilbo cried out for fear of a nearby animal that may have been accompanying the stranger. But there was no such animal and the growling quickly subsided, replaced by curses muttered both in Dwarvish and in Westron. Kili had noticed the peculiar sound as well it seemed because his grip had gone slack around the stranger's collar, only to tighten again as a brief struggle ensued and was soon taken to the ground as Kili fell with a heavy thud atop the unfortunate person he had accosted. A feminine yelp filled the air as the stranger's shoulder was pressed low by one of the dwarf's knees.

She – Bilbo realized the stranger was neither elf nor male – twisted out of Kili's grip just as the rest of the dwarves caught wind of the commotion and came hustling back down the path in a semi-single file cluster of armor-burdened bodies.

Kili was sputtering, his mouth opening and closing as he tried his best to reason out the woman's sudden appearance. Orla was scowling at him, her eyes cut hard as she glared up at the dwarf. She kicked away the slack jawed royal and moved to straighten her shirt before lifting a hand to massage her sore shoulder. She scrambled to her feet indignantly before Kili could even think to help her up.

Bilbo recognized her, though he had not spoken to her during their time in Rivendell. He had seen her at the meal that Elrond had invited them to and had been curious about her ever since. During that lunch, Thorin had seemed intrigued with her for all of five minutes before she had excused herself. Bilbo had seen no more of her after that.

Speaking of Thorin, his voice was soon booming over the rest of the dwarves as he pushed his way to where Kili and Orla stood. Bilbo gave the prince plenty of room, having seen the displeased set of his features as he passed. Balin and Dwalin were right behind him, flanking him like bodyguards and watching the young woman with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.

"What is the meaning of this?" Thorin barked. "What's going on? Kili?" He looked to his nephew, who had only just pried himself up from the ground, and then to the woman who stood nearby him.

Orla had yet to recover from her manhandling and she refused to remain still enough for conversation despite the weighty gazes upon her. She prowled back and forth within the small space between the rock face and the cliff's edge and Bilbo was suddenly struck with odd image of an animal pacing in a cage. She looked uncomfortable and more than a wee bit miffed if his eyes did not deceive him. Her brows were knitted together over pursed lips. The expression looked altogether wrong on her, he observed, seeing as how she was otherwise sweet-faced. Finally, she ceased her worried pacing, having worn a good trail between the two points she was trapped within. This, of course, was not before giving the dwarf nearest her a surprisingly threatening shove with her good shoulder.

Her temper it seemed, was proving deceptively fierce.

She looked to Thorin and the sharpness of her gaze abated somewhat, which was wise, Bilbo thought, considering Thorin's temper. Without saying a word, one hand flitted into the inner pocket of her duster and, with more precision than Bilbo had demonstrated when searching for his handkerchiefs, Orla soon produced leather bound satchel that had been tucked away. She extended the package to Thorin, who eyed it warily before he finally accepted it.

"What's this?"

Orla said nothing and instead folded her arms defiantly over her chest. _I'm not telling you._ Her head whipped around to glare a Kili once more. _And especially not you so don't even ask._

Although Thorin deemed it best to let Orla's quirks pass unaddressed, Dwalin took exception to what he apparently decided was an unforgivably rude trespass against his future king. He put a stalling hand on Thorin's shoulder and said, "I'd not accept a thing from her." He turned a set of hard eyes against Orla and spat, "Elf-lover."

Though the words were not ugly outright, Bilbo still had to cringe as if he had heard a much worse curse uttered. Orla took the remark in passing, however, and rather admirably managed to ignore the hulking dwarf altogether. Her ire was apparently reserved especially for those who actually made the mistake of moving against her.

Thorin's fingers stilled against the buckle of the satchel and he looked back to her. Though he could not see them at the moment, Bilbo had no doubt that the dwarf's dark blue eyes were studying her like she was some sort of potential weapon ready to spring at any moment. Finally, when she did not flinch or falter beneath his gaze, he seemed to decide she was no threat and went on to open the satchel as if he had never been interrupted in the first place. Moments later he removed from the leather bindings a handful of folded parchment. Letting the empty satchel drop to the ground, Thorin unfolded the papers as the rest of the dwarves watched on, careening their curious heads over each other's shoulders to get a better look.

"What is it?" Someone called.

Another voice, possibly Nori's, shouted, "Don't tell me that dress-wearing elf has called us back!"

"If so, he can shove that letter right up 'is –" Bilbo quickly ignored the rest of what Ori said.

Thorin called for silence as he looked over the parchment in his hands. His eyes darted across the crinkled cream-colored pages as he took in the information they bore. His eyes darted up to meet Orla's once more and she gestured at him expectantly.

With a sigh, Thorin refolded the papers and reached down for the satchel they had arrived in.

"I have no use for elvish maps," he told her firmly before adding an unimpressed, decidedly diplomatic sniff and holding them out for Orla to take.

The young human snatched the satchel from him quick as a beat and freed the papers again. She unfolded them with a huff and shoved them back at Thorin, this time with a finger gesturing toward what looked like handwritten notes in the margins. Bilbo, ever curious, stepped closer and peered around Dwalin's elbow to get a better look at that to which she was directing Thorin's attention. New paths had been drawn atop the existing lines and it did not take Bilbo long to figure that she had been the one to add them.

Thorin soon realized the same as he took the maps once more. "You marked these?"

Orla nodded.

"And in _what_ language?" the dwarf prince asked, bewildered. He tilted the map this way and that to look more closely at the notes Orla had written.

Orla looked affronted. Hands on her hips, she glared at him through pinched eyes.

"Westron?" Thorin guessed. Again, he received a nod. "Is it?" The prince did not look convinced as he continued to squint.

"Balin," he said, "what do you make of this?" He handed off one map to the old dwarf who looked it over for a long moment, his bulbous nose scrunched in his puzzlement.

"I imagine," Balin said with a curious murmur, "that it looks like Iglishmêk if Iglishmêk was a written language."

That earned old Balin an amused snort or two from most of the dwarves and even Bilbo, who recalled hearing of the closely guarded sign language of dwarves. Perhaps, if they had been privy to Orla's deepest secrets, they would have understood that penmanship was not a top priority for someone who spent half their time on all fours. But, unfortunately for Orla, they did not know this and as such, they were relegated to trying to decipher the script she had scribbled among the margins.

After a few more minutes spent in scholarly study, Thorin appeared to have finally grasped a basic understanding of Orla's handwriting. He suddenly looked up at the woman, letting the maps fall to his side within a loosely clenched fist. He asked her, "You came of your own accord?"

Orla's uninjured shoulder rose and fell but she remained unsurprisingly silent.

Balin posed the next question. For Bilbo, it was the most important one yet. "The paths you've marked, lass, are they safe routes?"

Orla held the old dwarf's eyes as if to give him time to spot the honesty held within her own. When Balin looked satisfied, Orla nodded just once for the rest of the dwarves to see.

"And how does one such as yourself come to know such things?" Dwalin grumbled. "You're naught but a girl."

"Aye," Fili seconded from among the group of dwarves. "I have to wonder that myself. No offense intended, my lady."

The woman only sighed and let her chin fall to her chest. There was something odd in her expression that Bilbo just managed to catch. He watched as her shoulders slumped marginally, just enough to reveal her frustration. Her palms were open as if to gesture that she had no further argument and it occurred to the hobbit that, despite whatever irritation she might be feeling, she must have at least suspected to run into such resistance. Thorin had noted this as well but he said nothing. He met Orla's eyes and their quiet exchange began once more.

Finally, Orla came forward and for a moment Bilbo thought she meant to take the maps from Thorin. Instead, much to his surprise, she took the dwarf's hands in hers and folded them over the maps, tucking his fingers securely around the parchment.

_Take them, please_ , her expression said. Thorin nodded firmly, his mouth shut tight against any further argument.

Much to Bilbo's surprise, Orla, having released Thorin's hands, came to stand before the hobbit next. She knelt down so that she was just about eye level with the little halfling before reaching into her coat to pull out one final bit of folded parchment…one last map. Much like she had done to Thorin, she handed the parchment to him before him could object.

Adding to his own surprise, along with everyone else's, Orla spoke then. Bilbo had begun to doubt she could speak at all, think at least that her voice would be harsher from disuse but its sound was as soft as the gleam in her grey eyes.

She said to him, "This one is yours, Bilbo. Your journey to Erebor is a long one. I pray this may lead you safely there and back again."

And there it was. Bilbo saw _it_ right then in that moment as the last spoken syllables of her words died away. He saw her and all at once he knew her.

"It's you," he mouthed in near silence, his voice hoarse and low from shock.

Bur Orla only shook her head, a simple gesture to beseech him not to say a word. If she was worried about Bilbo's sudden discovery, she did not show it. One corner of her lips played upward, concealing well the smile she was doing her best to hide.

"T-thank you." Later, the hobbit would be proud of himself for managing this much. As the seconds ticked by while Orla remained in front of him, Bilbo's mind continued to reel with the realization. His thoughts stumbled and fumbled over one another as he tried to link the woman and the wolf with what logic he possessed but reason failed him, getting lost somewhere amongst the riotous storm in his brain. How was it possible? He could only wonder. Right then he wished for Gandalf as hard as he had during the troll escapade; he wanted the wizard to explain immediately and with great detail how and why such a thing was possible. But the Grey Wizard was inconveniently nowhere to be seen and poor, shell-shocked, bamboozled Bilbo was left to puzzle over Orla's great mystery on his own.

In his childhood, he had heard tales of Men able to change their form but to have met one – no, more than that - to have _traveled_ with one in disguise, to have the very same woman-creature curled about him to keep him warm in the night…poor Bilbo found he could hardly cope. He fought the urge to turn with wide, dazed eyes to Thorin and instead, with every able fiber of his mental and physical capabilities, he forced his gaze down to the toes of Orla's boots instead.

Orla stood and ran a delicate hand over Bilbo's head, ruffling the chestnut curls there in a final gesture of fondness. She turned from the hobbit then and bobbed her head once in acknowledgement to Thorin before turning to go. The rest thought she might say goodbye but she did not such thing. She merely tucked a hand into the pocket of her coat with a well-masked wince, no doubt to support the shoulder that had been abused just minutes before.

Kili, being the dwarf who had spent the most time with her (more than even he knew, Bilbo realized), stepped in front of Orla to block her path. He looked up the head length distance to meet her eyes with an expectant frown of his own. For him, she paused long enough to smile the sort of half-hearted grin someone gives when they are saying goodbye. But she said nothing to him as she had to Bilbo and when he realized she would not, Kili removed himself from her path with a sigh.

"Goodbye, then," he called after her as she disappeared around the bend. "Sorry about -" But the woman was already gone and whatever apology he had wished her to hear went unheard.

Dori spoke up for all to hear, shaking his globe-like head as he did so. "What an odd lady!" he exclaimed. It was, Bilbo now knew, an absurd understatement.

Even Thorin agreed with Dori's observation, his own reply a rough, grunted version of a "yes." He looked down at the crudely written but well intentioned gifts in his hands and for a long while he said nothing else. Once he glanced at Bilbo just as the hobbit was stowing away his own specially made map.

In a show of good grace, his nerves having finally calmed as much as he expected them to, Bilbo offered, "Would you like to see it?"

Thorin shook his head. "Keep it, Master Baggins. Durin knows you'll be needing it."

Bilbo's mouth clamped shut at the prince's remark but his riled temper soon cooled when he realized that Thorin had only stated a fact. Eager to keep the map secure, the hobbit tucked it into his breast pocket beside his handkerchief for safe keeping.

"Kili," Thorin called to his put-out looking nephew, "take the lead with Fili for a time. Having you back here is cause enough to make us all nervous."

The young dwarf was wise enough not to argue and, with a last glance over his shoulder, he wordlessly slipped to the front of the line just in time for Thorin to order the company along. Gruff though he was, the future King Under the Mountain was no fool and as such, he tucked the maps safely away into his pack before moving forward.

Bilbo watched this and for the first time he wondered if Thorin had perhaps come to the same conclusion as Bilbo himself. There was something odd about their leader's interactions with the human woman, something akin to trust. And if it was not trust per se, then it was not the same open hostility the dwarf had shown to so many others during their journey. This comforted Bilbo. Knowing that Thorin would not so easily look a gift horse – well, perhaps wolf – in the mouth was enough to muster a little more courage in the hobbit and soon he had picked up his pack once more and made to follow the rest of the company, confident that the new paths that now lay ahead were safer than they had been not half an hour earlier.


	10. On the Road Again

As far as goodbyes were concerned, that one had left much to be desired. That being said, try as Orla might to be despondent about it, she could not quite manage it. Whatever part of her was disappointed with her farewell to the dwarves was outweighed by the memory of the look of recognition she had seen in the little hobbit's face. Of all the ones to recognize her, she had not guessed it would have been Mr. Baggins. Now, as the distance between her and the dwarves grew with every step, she could only hope that the knowledge the halfling now possessed would inspire him to trust in her maps.

It was a rare thing for someone to see past the fur and four-leggedness and glimpse the woman beneath it. Gandalf had done so, as had Elrond. One or two of the Du̒nedain rangers she had encountered in her travels had recognized her as well, having been acquaintances with her father and his father before him. Half the battle had been recognition and the other half prior knowledge great enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together. If anyone of the dwarves had discovered her secret, Orla would have been willing to put a solid gold piece on it being Thorin or Balin, both of whom had no doubt heard of the line of Beorn and the tales told about it.

But, to her surprise and, admittedly, her admiration, it had been little Bilbo that had finally caught on. There had been a look in his eyes, one of fear, for just a fleeting moment that had made her heart catch in her throat. She was many things but frightening was not something she had ever aspired to be. It was not until now, as she walked along the narrow path back towards the Last Homely House, that she realized Bilbo's fear had not stemmed from being afraid of her. As with others before him, it was his realization of the knowing that such a thing could exist and tread the very paths he walked without his ever knowing it. Still, her first impression seemed to be a good one and the hobbit's uncertainty had not lasted more than a few brief moments before he had simply looked on her as she was.

Would he tell the others? Perhaps, but it would be no great disservice to her if he did. If anything, should her gift come to light, she hoped that Kili would be the most unsettled by it. It would be good for him. Her lips twitched at the corners as she thought of the shock the young dwarf would endure should he find out. First, he would likely gawk, wide eyed and disbelieving just as he had done when she had cornered him beneath the outcrop at the river, and it only would be then that the complaints would start and those would undoubtedly last the entire journey through. Poor Bilbo, Thorin, and the others would have to bear it for the rest of the quest to Erebor. At least, she hoped as much.

It may perhaps have been vanity that cause her to hope that she would be so memorable. At the very least, she hoped that they would not forget her.

.

.

"Draug'adaneth!"

Young Estel's arms were wrapped around Orla's hips before she had managed to set two feet solidly on the city-side of the bridge at Rivendell's entrance.

"You left so quickly! I wasn't sure I'd see you again!" The boy gave her a disturbingly sharp look of disapproval, which quickly abated when she patted his cheek to reassure him that she was indeed returned.

Looking down at him, her grey eyes warmed by affection, she pinched one of his dimpled cheeks before giving him a look that said, Would I do that?

"No, I 'spose you wouldn't. But things happen!" Estel gave her another squeeze before letting his arms fall back to his sides. "Ada says so."

With a gentle shake of her head, Orla elected against acknowledging the boy's last comment. Ada had almost certainly said more than "things happen." Instead, eager to set her sights on Gandalf, she looked away from the boy and around for any sign of a grey pointed hat and a long beard. There was neither hide nor hair of the Grey Wizard to be seen, unfortunately, and Orla sighed aloud in her agitation.

"Mithrandir was on his way to speak to the Lady of Lorien with Ada. The other wizard was there, too." Estel supplied this information freely, all but twiddling his thumbs with the onset of his boredom, having seen Orla's attention wondering.

Other wizard? Orla raised a quizzical brow and waited for further elaboration which, considering the source, did not come. If there was another wizard in Rivendell that would certainly explain Gandalf's unwillingness to leave with Thorin and Company.

It did not matter much either way. Orla still had packing to do and young Estel was looking bored so she figured she might as well take advantage of that youthful energy while it was available. Reaching down to take his hand, Orla smiled at him in urging to come along with her. He was happy to oblige and fell in step beside her as they headed towards the rooms Orla had given during her stay. Once there, Orla quickly set to packing.

After having been bribed with the promise of a future marriage engagement, Estel agreed to fold her spare blanket and clothes. Orla, who was rather peculiar when it came to leaving things behind, gathered up her bed roll and a variety of knick-knacks that tended to come in handy while traveling. The journey from Bywater with the dwarves had been a long one, with more time spent on all fours than she was typically used to, and she was looking forward to traveling a ways on her own two feet. The going would be slower and more dangerous, but she was excited to the feel of the road beneath her own two bipedal feet.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Estel asked after he had finished rolling Orla's blanket into a neat and portable size. He carried it over to her pack, which was laid atop a chest at the foot of the bed, and sat it down. Pushing both the pack and blanket aside, he hopped up to perch beside it, knees folded beneath him as he watched Orla through curious eyes.

She sighed, having finished her own chores and turned to meet the child's look with her own. A long while, she tried to smile, I have grand adventures to go on, you see.

"Can I come with you?"

Orla shook her head, a tender frown creasing around her lips and eyes.

"I'll miss you, draug'adaneth."

I'll miss you, too.

Estel sniffled, a sound not quite loud enough to place him on the verge of a tearful goodbye, and looked away. Across the room, near the dresser she had been raiding for necessities, Orla allowed her body to rest back against the solid Elven craftsmanship. She folded her arms across her chest and noted fleetingly that her shoulder was not as well-off today as she had hoped it would be. No doubt Kili's waylaying had hindered the typically impressive miracles of Elvish healing. She could ignore the pain for now.

For a long moment she was content to allow herself the joy of watching the child. An uncomfortable ping of something long forgotten lodged between her throat and heart – regret, perhaps, but she did not care to acknowledge it.

Estel was looking over at her sadly and she matched his gaze with her own. Her shoulders pulled low of their own accord, drooping as if weighed down by the moody air in the room. It was not long before Orla had to look away from the child she would miss so much, the one that reminded her of safety and home and of days better left behind her. She supposed that in a way her affection for Estel stemmed partly from an innate child-longing. That and perhaps the admiration she held in his innocence.

"Will you come back again?"

Her frown deepened and she thought to herself, Ah, that's the question, now isn't it? Orla could not say that she rightly knew and she would offer a child such as Estel nothing less than certainty. Her travels took her far and wide, to and fro, and often times the paths she chose to tread did not end as she had imagined they would. She had chosen the Icebay of Forochel as her endpoint but that could just as easily change to Edoras or the Barrow Downs in a month's time. So, without any other option, she shrugged.

"I hope I see you again, draug'adaneth."

Orla fought the urge to speak, to offer words of placation and reassurance. Perhaps, to any other child she may have. But not to Estel. She could only hope that if she did him see again, he would be the same happy, free-spirited child as he was now. She hoped he remained a troublemaker and jokester for the rest of his days, with a laugh that grew from the high-pitched jingle of his adolescence into the deep, healthy, belly-aching laugh of manhood. She wished that much for Estel, just as she wished the dwarves to reach Erebor safely.

Her bags having been packed and with not much else left to do, she pushed away from spot by the dresser and extended a hand to the child across the room.

A grin, broad and happy, spread over her lips as she asked, "Aes?"

Estel responded in kind, his own smile breaking over his lips to dimple his cheeks as he scooted over the edge of the chest and onto his feet.

.

.

Night had settled over Rivendell, the twilight having slipped away many hours earlier. It did not matter; the time made no difference to the two figures that stood out on the balcony over the Elf-Lord's private quarters. They were far more silent than the night that cloaked them, the only sounds around them being the gurgle of a brook and the faint song of chimes dancing in the breeze.

Finally, after a long while had passed and the chimes had ceased their musical dance, Elrond spoke, looking over his shoulder to the Maiar at his side.

"When will you leave us, Mithrandir? You spoke not of it in front of Sauruman, though I suspect that was your intention."

Gandalf smiled at the elf's perceptiveness, though the movement of his lips could not easily be seen beneath the tangles of his great, grey beard. "At first light, old friend. I think that best. If I dally in your valley for too long, I fear the trouble Thorin and his dwarves may get up to."

Though Elrond said nothing in response, it was clear that he felt the same, although the idea of that motley group getting into a spot of trouble was not entirely unpleasant to him.

"And Orla? Estel tells me that she will depart on the morn as well."

"I have not spoken to her since she went dashing out this morning," Gandalf replied, "but I suspect she is as eager as I to leave this fair valley behind." He glanced at Elrond, who had turned a sharp cheek to him in mild offense, before adding, "Only with the fondest of memories, of course."

"I think it best that she has decided against joining the dwarves. I thought perhaps that she would travel with them to her father's lands but it seems that she has thought better of it."

Gandalf knew a question when he heard one, particularly when it came from one such as Elrond. "Orla has not ventured into her father's lands for a decade past. Her heart lays elsewhere and despite any goodwill and fond wishes she has for Thorin's dwarves, she will not be swayed in that regard."

Elrond took a long step forward to place his hands against the stone railing at the balconies edge, not turning his head as he said in admission, "I confess I do not know why, even if it does please me to see her take a safer path."

Clearing his throat, Gandalf made to fumble for his pipe before stopping himself upon remembering that smoking his old Tobey in Elrond's private quarters would be most rude. His stalling did not put off the elf at his side despite his high hopes of doing so and he finally gave the Elf-Lord the only answer he could.

"Likewise, my friend, I confess that I have not asked her."

Not quite satisfied but not one to show it, Elrond allowed the topic to fade away and the two fell into silence again.

.

.

Morning came too soon. The sun's rays had only just begun to peek through the valley when Orla opened her eyes. Her sight was immediately bombarded with a spectacular show of golden-pink and orange rays as they filtered in through sheer curtains which made a half-hearted attempt at blocking them. Good curtain makers, elves were not. At least, that would have been the conclusion most folks such as dwarves and hobbits would have come to but, alas, Orla was neither and as such she clambered out of the bed with an awkward stretch and a yawn. After washing, she dressed quickly, well versed in the underappreciated art of knowing how many clothes and such to layer and whether or not to wear her thickest or thinnest socks for foot travel.

Swooping up her pack and settling it across her shoulders, she paused before scanning the room for anything she might be leaving behind. The bed, she noticed, was still unmade and she thought that perhaps she should be a good guest and make it but, knowing the elves, they would just strip it for washing before remaking it themselves in the proper Elven fashion, which usually involved too many turns and fancy folds for Orla's tastes. With the messy bed out of the equation, there was little else in the room to show that she had ever been there. What scant few possessions she owned or had acquired during her stay were stowed away in the leather pack at her back. So it was that without further ado, Orla left her room in Rivendell behind her for the last time.

By now, the trails of Elrond's valley had become familiar to her and she made her way to Rivendell's entrance without any particularly strenuous effort. As expected, when she came down one of the many staircases, she saw Lord Elrond waiting below with Estel and several other elves at his side. They were not waiting for her it seemed, but for Gandalf, who was sitting astride a compact but steady looking grey horse. Like Orla, the wizard had packed his bags yet, unlike her, looked as if he were about to set off in the same direction of Thorin and Company. Whatever business he'd had with the visiting wizard must have been concluded and he was soon to off on the next leg of his adventure with the dwarves and Mr. Bilbo.

Without a word but with many a smile, Orla joined the group, grinning cheerfully over at Gandalf and Elrond. Gandalf beamed back at her, pleased to see her well and in such high spirits.

"On the road again, are you? Already?" the Maiar asked, shaking his head as his grin faded into the mass of facial hair.

Orla bobbed her head. Nearby, Elrond spoke and her attention was drawn to him. "May we expect your company within these halls again?"

Orla's eyes set to sparkling and she gave the Elf-Lord a cheeky wink. I certainly hope so!

Elrond shook his head, his own smile warm despite his formality. "I shall rejoice the day we host Beorn's daughter and the Grey Wizard in Imladris again. Until then, I would give you a gift, Orla."

Glancing at the old wizard, Orla posed to him a silent question, one eyebrow raised curiously at Elrond's announcement. Gandalf made a terribly transparent show of ignoring her and instead patted the grey mane of his horse hard enough to make the mare toss her head in protest. Just as Orla raised her hands to object to any gifts Elrond could give her, a second elf had floated up beside her and had graciously dropped something into her open palms before she could refuse.

Open mouthed at the sudden presentation of the gift, Orla had to remind herself to shut her lips lest she begin to attract flies and, rather than do that, she took a moment to appraise what Elrond had bestowed on her. It was a bow, fine and sleek and carved from a masterful Elvish hand. Beautiful in its simplicity, the bow was one of the finest she had ever laid eyes on and would no doubt fire an arrow as true as any other bow to be found. That was, of course, providing she herself could hit the target. She a proficient archer but little else could be said of her skill.

Easing her grip around the smooth curve of the wood, she shook her head. She could not accept such a thing. She lifted her arms and outstretched them to Elrond. As she did, something beneath her shirt gave a faint jingle and she was reminded of an earlier gift that had already been given to her. It was the mithril-inlaid shirt that had been spread out for her amongst her things the first day after awakening in Rivendell. The frustrated sigh that fluttered out from between her lips at the realization was not something she could do anything about. With one hand she reached down and jerked a finger at her shirt before shaking her head at Elrond in refusal once more.

Nearby, Gandalf scolded her from atop his horse. "Now, Orla, I think it best that you endeavor to set aside your stubbornness for this occasion at least."

All the words earned him was a glare and another stern head shake.

The hand that was still on the bow was soon covered by another warm touch and Orla glanced to see that Elrond had placed his hand atop hers, his slender elven fingers curling around her much smaller hand as if he was gripping a small stone.

"It is a gift, Orla," he explained calmly, "A token of gratitude for the bravery you have displayed and the favor you have performed for Mithrandir."

Orla muffled a rude snort before jerking her head to look away from both the elf and wizard. Her bottom lip jutted out farther than was necessary to illustrate her displeasure but she said nothing else in protest. The shirt and the bow would come in handy and would no doubt serve to ease her mind as she traveled. The truth was that she liked to hope she would not need either of the gifts and accepting them just made her feel as if she was inviting trouble to find her and force her to make use of them.

Instead, having resigned herself to accepting the Elf-Lord's treasures, she carefully extricated her hand and the bow from Elrond's grip before bringing both up over her heart in an unmistakable sign of thanks. She bowed her head and, though she said nothing, she knew that it was more than enough to placate both the elf and the wizard. Elrond appeared pleased as he took a step back from her and Gandalf was looking…well, Orla realized, he was looking off in the direction of the Misty Mountains, no doubt thinking of the journey to come.

Orla slung the bow over her shoulders, adjusting the taunt string so that it lay across her chest. It was awkward for her to bear a weapon; she had carried a bow before but such times were rare and usually short lived since she tended to have to leave the weapon behind if she ever changed her form. That, or she just generally misplaced such items and lost them within the miles of woodlands and mountains. Before she could even adjust to the bow's almost nonexistent weight at her back, the elf who had handed her weapon had reappeared and was draping over her shoulder a quiver of arrows. The elf's hands worked in silence and before long he had tightened the quiver's strap to fit her shoulder snuggly so that it would not slip.

"Now, you are ready," Elrond observed as the Elven helper flittered away from Orla's side.

Orla could only nod. I suppose I am.

"Do be careful, my friend." Gandalf nudged his mare forward and Orla found herself reaching to stroke the horse's soft coat as she looked up the long distance to Gandalf's smiling face. He was looking down at her, his grey beard hanging down the space between his chin and the top of Orla's head so that she was able to reach up and give it a playful tug, much to the wizard's amusement. He chuckled deep and warm so that the sound reverberated pleasantly within Orla's chest.

Shaking her head, she flicked him a quick wink just in time for him to catch the flash of grey before it was hidden behind a curtain of bouncing curls. Be well, Gandalf, that look of hers said amidst all its fondness. I hope to see you again. She nudged her head in the direction of the Mountains that lay beyond and cast a worried glance at them. Watch out for Thorin and the lot. They'll be needing it.

"I'll do what I can, my dear. Do take care and may your road go ever on," Gandalf told her. As he looked at her, Orla thought that she might have spotted a flicker of sadness there in his eyes but it was gone before she could give it much thought.

A moment later, Elrond had gripped both her shoulders beneath his soft hands and he gave her a gentle squeeze before releasing her. "May the Valar guide your path, Orla, daughter of Beorn, down the longest roads and through the deepest darkness, wherever it leads you."

And you, she replied with the incline of her head.

Finally, having made nearly all her goodbyes, she came to the hardest one of all. Estel stood near his guardian, his dark head downturned so as to not look her in the eyes when she came to him. Orla supposed that in a way the two of them had already said their goodbyes and it pained her to have to do so again for the sake of formality. Crouching down, her knees bending under her easily so that she was level with the youngling, she reached out and nudged his chin up.

She had feared that he might be on the edge of tears but she should have known better. Estel was as clear eyed as he had been the day she had first met him and he looked across at her, grey eyes to grey.

"See you again?"

Despite all his boyish flirtations and proclamations, Orla suspected Estel knew just as well as she that there was a chance he would not see her in Rivendell again.

"I could come with you, you know," he said. Puffing his chest out with a deep inhalation of air, Estel crossed his arms and for a moment he looked just as stalwart and determined as any king of Men or even, dare she say, Thorin Oakenshield himself.

But, despite the genuine nature of the boy's offer, Orla had to shake her head.

"I could learn to track and hunt like you do. I might not be like you but I could be as good as a ranger."

By this time Orla's eyes had grown tender and her lips had to be pursed against the wave sadness that threatened to breach her carefully composed façade. Still unwilling to let those feelings breach her outward barrier, she shook her head.

"You could teach me. You're more fun than Ada. We'd travel all over and have lots of adventures -"

"Estel," Orla said quietly.

"I'd protect you. I'd have your back. You wouldn't get struck by any more arrows ever and –"

With nothing left to say, Orla pulled the child to her before he could finish his thought. She hugged him tight, her chin resting atop the dark mass of curls as she squeezed him to her for a final goodbye. His small hands, much smaller than even her own, clutched at her back and gripped tightly the leather coat she wore. She thought at first that he might not let go but finally his grip on her went slack and she pulled away. The boy looked across to her, his eyes finally shining with a barely perceptible gleam and he announced quietly, "I have something for you."

Orla nodded her head silently and watched as he reached around behind his back to pull free something that had been tucked away out of sight from his guardian and any other onlookers. Quickly, when he was certain Lord Elrond was not looking, Estel placed something in Orla's hands. He looked at it, a little bashful now that he had presented it to her and, before Orla could register what it was, Estel had whispered one last goodbye, kissed her cheek, and darted away from her side. Up the nearby set of stars he dashed, only turning to look back at the group below when he had reached the top step.

With a grin, one that was wild and rosy cheeked in its genuineness, Estel called back, "Goodbye, Mithrandir! Goodbye, Orla! Farewell!"

And before Orla could open her mouth to call back or even raise her hand in goodbye, Estel, whose fate lay many years down the road, disappeared from her sight with a final flash of grey eyes and the footfall of light feet against elven stonework.

She sighed and the breath that escaped her lips felt stale and distant, more like a heavy breeze than her own exhalation. She really needed to get going, she decided, before she burst into tears. When she moved on from a particular location, rarely was there anyone to whom she had to say goodbye. More often than not over the past decade, her company had been comprised of trees and the occasional mute animal and, other than the great Ents of Fangorn, company such as that rarely spoke back. As it was, a lump had already lodged itself inconveniently in the center of Orla's throat and she was all at once grateful for the fact that she was not a conversationalist.

It was only as she went to push herself up from her knees that she thought to look down at the gift Estel had given her, which still lay forgotten in her hands. It was a small dagger, the sort that was made to go in one's boot. Like the bow Elrond had bestowed on her, the dagger was of Elvish make, curved and thin with a smooth engraved handle made of fine ash wood. How Estel had come across it, Orla did not know but she slipped it into her boot nonetheless before standing and turning back to Gandalf and Lord Elrond, who had both been chatting away quietly during her goodbyes to Estel. Elrond noticed the look on Orla's face and he turned from Gandalf then, only to incline his head to the little human woman one last time. Orla smiled at him gratefully, her eyes tickling in the corners more than they really should have. Soon she would start leaking like old plumbing and that was something that she just could not allow.

The smile she wore only grew bigger as she looked fondly up at Gandalf, whose own eyes were shining brightly in the growing light of the morning.

Farewell! Her eyes said in a flash of grey. Be well and look out for the dwarves! One twinkling eye disappeared beneath the bat of fair lashes. Better you than me.

And, with that, Orla gathered her pack up onto her back, double checked the bow and quiver, and left the home of Elrond and his elves behind her for what would be the final time.


	11. On the Matter of Singing Goblins

It was several miles before Kili decided to renew his torment of the halfling. They would soon be crossing the border out of the elves' protected territory and, when Kili had heard Balin tell Bilbo as much, the hobbit had remained suspiciously calm.

"Not worried are you, Mr. Boggins?" Kili asked, sidling up to the hobbit who walked near the front of the company. He kept his voice low so that his uncle would not hear him. Then again, Thorin Oakenshield seemed too lost in thought to take much notice of anything other than the path he walked along.

Bilbo should have glared at him in response to his tiny jab, in fact, Kili was counting on it. But the hobbit did no such thing. With a determined shrug and a bob of his head, Bilbo replied with an irksome, noncommittal statement.

"I feel better with the maps."

"Ah, your way home. Better keep a closer eye on them than you do your handkerchiefs, burglar. It would be a sad loss if something were to happen to them." Determined to raise the hobbit's ire, Kili jabbed at Bilbo's breast pocket for emphasis.

If Mr. Baggins cared about or even noticed Kili's attention, he did not show it. Unfortunately for the young dwarf, whatever plans he'd had for pestering – or perhaps, more accurately, for pilfering precious maps – had to be set aside for the time being when he heard his uncle call for him. With night soon settling upon them, Thorin had deemed it wise for Fili and Kili to search the path ahead while the rest of the dwarves stayed back. Bilbo and his maps, along with all chances of fun and entertainment, were forgotten as Kili set off with his brother to walk ahead. Half an hour later, they returned with news for the rest of company.

"The path splits in two up ahead. One goes low while the other leads higher into the mountains," Fili reported.

Old Balin shook his head. "I'd avoid wondering too near the base of these mountains if I were you. Many a foul creature calls the valley below home."

"And many a foul thing calls the cliffs above us home as well. I see no difference. Choose one," Dwalin said, offering his own boisterous opinion.

Thorin, having heard his share of stories concerning the Misty Mountains' dangers, let out a long, heavy sigh. He shrugged off his pack, which had honestly begun to bite uncomfortably into the muscle of his shoulders anyway. Kneeling down so that he could better dig through it, he said, "There are many paths in these mountains, we all know as much. Many though there may be, most of them are known cheats and lead to bad ends."

From behind Dwalin and Balin, Thorin heard the hobbit pipe up and, though he could not see Mr. Baggins for he was tucked away as short people tend to be when surrounded by larger folks, he heard him just the same.

"What of the maps? Times like this are when such things come in handy. When the way is lost or hidden or the sign's been knocked down."

"I don't think there was ever a sign here, Mr. Baggins," Fili called in response with a woeful shake of his fair head.

The future King Under the Mountain fought back valiantly against the damnable twitching that plagued the corners of his mouth. It was a battle that was mostly hidden beneath the straggly growth of his black beard and as such, the burglar had likely not noticed any of it. Thorin, as was usual, was in no mood to humor the halfling, even if his words had possessed some measure of sense. The truth was that Thorin had already been looking for the maps when Bilbo had spoken up. It was then that his fingers finally closed around the leather satchel that had worked its way to the very bottom of his near bottomless pack. He drew it out and soon one of the maps was spread before him, its chicken-scratch bared for all to see and puzzle over. A great deal of head scratching took place over the next few minutes until Thorin – with Balin's input – finally deciphered that the path the human woman had marked in this portion of the mountains was leading upwards rather than down toward the valley.

"Do you really think we ought to trust that slip of girl?" Someone called from the group of dwarves, most of whom had taken a seat against the cliff side while they awaited orders from their fearless leader.

"She looked t' me like the sneaky sort." Gloin called, scratching at his bright ginger beard in recollection.

Kili appeared to take offence. He stepped forward and jerked a finger in Gloin's direction as he fired off, "Oy! They're good maps! I trust her."

Gloin did not look convinced and merely waved a hand at the lad. He muttered, "Elf maps, bah!"

Ignoring the debate over Orla's trustworthiness, Thorin grimaced at the next suggestion as Dori said, "Oughtn't we wait on the wizard? He can tell us for certain."

Shaking his head, Thorin replied, "Gandalf will find us either way. For now, we take the high road." With that, he folded up the map and sealed securely back into the satchel before putting it away again.

The debate was immediately settled and the dwarves quieted. One by one they stood, each picking up there packs and settling them on their shoulders, ready to resume their journey, a journey which had just gotten considerably steeper, thanks in no small part to a woman who was, at that very moment, headed in the exact opposite direction.

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* * *

.

"How many days, Fili?"

"Three, I told you!"

"It's been more than three. I've got the sore feet to prove it."

Kili grunted and cast a long, sad look at the feet that had just been mentioned. "It seems as if we've been walking forever. The path keeps going up and up," he gazed woefully at the ever steepening route before adding, "and _up_."

"Stop whining," the older brother groaned, his head going back with a self-pitying shake as if to express woes of his own.

"Where's the wizard?" Kili asked. At the moment, he was willing to change the topic to anything so long as he did not have to think about the blisters that were beginning to form on his heels due to the awkward incline – or, even worse, the biting cold that was growing sharper with every passing mile as they progressed further into the heights of the Misty Mountains.

To answer his brother's question, Fili gave a tired roll of his shoulders and said plainly that he did not have the faintest idea.

Kili, who was growing more and more bored and grumpy by the minute, groused, "Wasn't he supposed to join us by now?"

"Aye."

He would be getting nowhere with his brother, Kili decided and as a result he found himself scanning the line of dwarves for a head of curly chestnut hair. He spotted Bilbo soon enough. The hobbit was trekking along, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets and his cloak drawn tight around his shoulders. No sooner than Kili had spotted him did the sky above darken as clouds fat with rain began to roll in. They seemed near enough to touch, so high were the dwarves into the mountains and Kili wondered how long they had before the cold was accompanied by a downpour as well. Bilbo noticed it too, looking up bitterly at the sky and appearing every bit as bothered as he had been when a troupe of dwarves had shown up unannounced and cleared out his larder.

"How are you faring, burglar?" Kili called back, his words carrying loudly over the small distance. No sooner than the words had left his mouth had Thorin caught him by the collar of his coat. Where his uncle had come from, Kili did not know. With a muffled yelp, he flinched and glanced apologetically at the older dwarf.

"Hush, boy!" his uncle hissed into his ear. The warmth of Thorin's breath was nearly scalding against the younger dwarf's cold cheek and he twisted uncomfortably within Thorin's grip. "You'll have more than bitter cold to worry about if you keep shouting."

Kili was abashed; had it been possible, he would have melted into the rocks right then and there. "I meant no harm –"

Thorin growled, "I know," and the turned him a loose. If there was any further reprimand to come, Kili was waiting in vain. Thorin turned from him and raised his hand to bring the other dwarves to a halt.

"We'll stop here for a while," Thorin proclaimed, his voice low. It seemed at first an odd place to stop, there on the ledge of a precariously high cliff, but there was good sense in it. Dark rocks jutted out over the dwarves' heads and protected them from the snow and rain that was causing the clouds above to swell and blacken in the sky. The path itself was at a point which curved inward to the mountain side, shielding them from much of the wind that had been stirring their coattails in its blustery wake. It was as good a place as they would find for now. The dwarves shuffled amongst each other but they all kept their backs pressed to the rock wall and any rearranging that needed to be done was done with extra care.

Kili tiptoed his way around Nori and Ori and slipped around Dori, maneuvering until he came to rest beside the hobbit and Bofur.

"You didn't answer my question, Master Hobbit." Kili remarked, sitting his pack down and taking a seat atop it.

Bilbo mostly ignored him and did not say anything for a long while, though that may have been due in part to the _clickity-clack_ of his teeth as they chattered. The hobbit had cast his gaze away from the dwarves and instead was looking past the distant peaks of the mountains. Kili followed his line of sight, trailing the path the hobbit's eyes had worn past the motley gathering of dwarves and on into the distance. Realization slowly came over him and the young dwarf could only look to Bofur, who had been watching Bilbo closely, perhaps already knowing what the hobbit was longing after. Bofur's dark eyes flicked to Kili and the mustached dwarf shook his head and sighed in a way that was completely devoid of cheer.

It was then that the rain finally began to fall, coming down quick and without any unnecessary formality, as if someone had untied a flour sack and dumped it upside down. Before they could even think to get their hoods up, they were all near soaked, hair plastered to their cold faces and eyes half shut against the force of the falling water.

It was enough of a trigger to prompt the hobbit to speak and when he did, he sounded far more despondent than he had since leaving Elrond's sanctuary days earlier. The wear and tear of traversing the Misty Mountains was leaving its mark on poor Bilbo and there was naught anyone could do about it.

"It's nearly summer down there, you know," Bilbo told them thoughtfully, "It's warm. The Shire will be getting ready for haymaking and picnics. The fruit will be about ripe by now and those Sackville-Bagginses will have claimed nearly all the blackberries in the whole of Hobbiton so that they can get to making their jellies and tarts. But I don't want any thoughts of jellies and tarts right now, I don't think."

That was far enough. To be honest, neither did Kili.

Bofur nudged Bilbo and offered the hobbit a warm but useless smile, one which was partially hidden through the cloak of the storm. "Cheer up, Bilbo. A frown like that does no good."

Bilbo's frown lessened somewhat and he tore his eyes away long enough to look at the two dwarves beside him. Kili clapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly, feeling that he had to do something to keep the halfling from stewing too long in such thoughts. He had only just opened his mouth when the tremors started. He thought he had imagined them at first, his eyes flicking to Bofur only to see that the dwarf was sitting ramrod straight, his face a plaster-cast of alarm.

Bilbo's eyes went alight with sudden fear and his head snapped round from dwarf to dwarf. "Did you feel that? It moved. The ground moved!"

"Just the tumble of rocks –" But Bofur's words were interrupted as the "tumble of rocks" turned into something that for all intents and purposes felt like an avalanche. All around them eyes went wide as the path they currently sat on begin to tremble and vibrate as if the mountain itself was coming alive beneath them.

"It's not just the tumble of rocks!" Kili cried, one finger jerking out to point across the dark valley to the far side of the mountain. "Durin's beard, it's the stone giants! Just like in the stories!"

As wide as the young dwarf's eyes were, which was quite wide – as big as saucers just about – it was easy for the remaining dwarves and hobbit to see that he was soon to lose his senses to awe and amazement…if he did not lose his life to the rocks that were crashing down about them first.

"Stay away from the edge, Kili," Thorin growled in warning. Despite his efforts, his voice was drowned out by an extra loud crack of stone above.

The company was soon to come to the conclusion that there really was nothing quite so alarming as having rocks buckle and give below the soles of one's feet all while the same cracking and splitting was going on above one's head. As remarkable as the stone giants were in all their towering, rocky power, they were even more unnerving to the dwarves stranded in the heights of mountains.

"We must move on!" Thorin shouted, his voice booming out louder than it had before. "If we don't get blown off, or drowned, or struck by lightning, we'll be picked up by some giant and kicked sky-high!"

"Well, look at the maps again!" Bilbo cried, his voice half full of fear and the other half full of the absolute, undeniable need to get up and haul his little hobbit feet back down the mountain as quickly as they would carry him.

But it seemed that there was to be no time for Thorin or anyone else to look at the precious maps. It was just about then that Thorin's prediction came to the very brink of proving true as one of the giants happened to hurl its great, big stone fist back into the mountainside where the dwarves stood, landing only twenty feet above their poor, shuddering heads and sending a spray of splintered rock showering down over them.

The maps were immediately forgotten as Thorin ordered the dwarves forward before a second blow from the giant could land any closer and render any remaining luck they might have null and void. On the dwarves sprinted, up and around the narrow path, their packs bouncing atop their backs noisily enough to cover their scrambling footsteps.

All seemed well as the distance between the giants and themselves grew until suddenly the hobbit, who had been running alongside Bifur and Bofur, lost his footing. Down he went with a cry, his small hands grabbing for purchase on anything within his reach, which only happened to be Bifur's coattails. Those coattails gave a horrible rip and Bilbo, who, as it was, happened to be teetering too precariously for his liking over the edge of the mountain, went for a tumble head over heels. Now, Bilbo had always wanted to leave Middle Earth safe and warm in his bed in the Shire when his time came, not plummet head first to his death in the Misty Mountains. Such was his luck that both Bofur and Bifur, with his ripped coat, caught him by either foot before he could fall too far.

There he was, dangling over the edge and shouting colorfully all the while as the cousins tugged at his feet, feet which were slick with grime and wet earth. It was just as their hands began slipping when Bilbo came to notice another presence at his side. He thought at first that someone else had slipped and fallen and that there would likely be a race between them to see who could reach the bottom the quickest. Despite his fearful state, he managed to glance up long enough to see that it was Thorin who was now hanging beside him. Thorin, Bilbo decided, was the worst possible candidate to be hanging from the cliff since he was the one who had to lead this motley crew of dwarves to their doomed city. But none of that really mattered to the hobbit until he felt Thorin's hand fish down and catch in the collar of his shirt.

With a loud cry, the future King Under the Mountain managed to haul the burglar up, folding him like a lawn chair until Bilbo managed to grab the edge of the cliff again long enough for Bofur and Bifur to help him up. He had only just crawled to his belly and dirtied his lips from kissing the semi-solid ground that he noticed Dwalin and Fili pull Thorin up beside him.

As he lay there, Bilbo thought that the deep, heaving breaths he heard Thorin taking stemmed from relief at no longer being suspended by his finger tips over the cliff's edge but, alas, upon taking a good and grateful look at the expedition's leader, the hobbit realized that it was anger that was rolling off the dwarf in audible waves. Thorin's eyes were flinty and cold despite knowing the terror the hobbit had just endured. Suddenly Bilbo feared all at once that he had escaped one fate just to be turned to stone moments later by the shear harshness of the gaze that was leveled on him.

"Fool," he saw Thorin's lips shape the word even though the dwarf was too breathless to give voice to it.

Before the hobbit could make amends, he was being clapped over his shoulder by an elated Bofur. "I had thought you lost for sure, Bilbo!" the dwarf cried, his hand still coming down roughly and repetitively against Bilbo's quaking shoulders.

It was Thorin who spoke next, having clambered to his feet after a small boulder, tossed by the giant, had crash-landed nearby. He grumbled, "Fool's been lost ever since he joined us."

Thorin's words came as growls more than actual syllables and he continued to look upon Bilbo with his jaw clenched tight. Something else was boiling just beneath the surface of the dwarf and, though Bilbo was afraid to look too closely, he thought he caught a brief glimmer of worry in the dwarf's eyes – worry that was no doubt for the ones that followed him, the ones that now faced terrible danger because of him. But the look was gone so quickly that Bilbo was certain he had imagined it in the first place.

Thorin whirled about, his black hair sending a spray of water far enough to pelt all those who stood nearby. He bellowed, "Move! All of you up the path, now!"

With feet hustling one over another, clumsy and hurried, the line of dwarves sprinted forward, bobbing and weaving amongst fallen rocks and lightning strikes; it became hard to distinguish between the two dangers, the stone giants with their noisy game and the storm with its great, soggy ruckus. Dwarves scattered and flitted between each other and there was hardly one among them who was not clinging to another.

But woe befell them once again after they had made it out of range of the giants' destruction. In their hurry they had lost sight of the path and they were left to find themselves scattered about one side of the mountain, some high and others low as they looked about to regroup their numbers.

"Looks like a cave down below!" Nori had spied the cave's black mouth through the sheath of rain. He called out loud enough for all to hear.

Like flies to honey the dwarves all closed in on the little hole in the mountainside. Some took longer than others to get inside but eventually they all made it safe and sound and thoroughly _wet_. Though the rain had not made it inside the cavern, the air was still damp, smelling heavy with ozone and wet earth.

"I don't think I like the looks of this one bit," Ori remarked quietly.

"Agreed. We're too far off the path," Fili observed with a shake of his head. He turned and looked across the small space to his uncle, who was lingering near the entrance, his eyes turned out into the darkness. Clearing his throat, Fili made a quiet suggestion. "We need to find it again."

Beside the fair-haired dwarf, Kili, who was looking rather akin to a drowned swamp rat, nodded his head vigorously enough to send his hair splattering wetly against the leather of his coat. "It's too dark in here," he said, having sense enough to keep his voice low, "Maybe we should light a fire? Have a look at the maps again?"

"No," Thorin objected. He turned from the mouth of the cave as one hand went up in staunch refusal of the idea. "No fires, not in here. We'll wait 'til morning before we move on. For now, we'll rest and take watch in shifts. There's no telling what might slither out of these cracks when we've closed our eyes."

Bilbo looked mildly discouraged at the idea of going without a fire. In the calm, his teeth had found time enough to set to chattering again and before long his thoughts had begun to wander back to the Shire and the early summer that had no doubt made the night back home warm and pleasant. Up until a few hours ago, the hobbit had thought he'd been doing rather well. Now, in the awful, light-devoid dark of the cave, he found himself feeling much older and wearier than he had ever felt before. Without a word, he sat down, his damp clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin as his knees folded beneath him. The other followed and it appeared that they had all come to the same conclusion – that there wasn't one among them who was not in due need of night's rest.

.

* * *

.

Orla could smell them long before she saw them.

It was during her third night since leaving the sanctuary of Rivendell that the uglier side of seeping under the stars reared its foul head. It was in the form of screeches and the scratching of clawed feet that she first became aware of the goblins' presence. She should have smelled them, and would have, too, if it had not been for the storm that had rolled in earlier in the night.

She lay on the ground, tucked beneath a sheltered outcropping. Her eyes snapped open when she heard the tell-tale gibberish and high-pitched cries as the sound carried over the wind. She half rose from her pallet and tilted her head, keen ears pricking for any sign to judge the goblins' nearness to the camp she had made. Many a ranger would have reached immediately for their weapon but Orla's merely waited, hands still and her breathing anxious. No thought went just yet to the bow or knife that was tucked into her boot. Perhaps that was naivety on her part; she preferred to think of it as optimism.

There were few things in all of Middle Earth that Orla could say she genuinely hated. Overcooked tenderloin was one and goblins were another. And at the moment she was almost positively certain that she hated goblins first and foremost. Right then, even the smell of the worst burnt tenderloin would have been preferable to the odor that was wafting down from the mountainside courtesy of the ill-directed wind. The scent of goblins was most peculiar and, having encountered it in the past, Orla knew that she could have identified it even earlier had she been awake to do so. The scent of Misty Mountain goblins – and truthfully, all other goblins – made her stomach churn in a supremely uncomfortable mix of distress and disgust.

Finally, as the smell and sounds grew stronger, her thoughts turned to weapons she had with her. Being armed with only a bow and small dagger - the gift Estel had pilfered from someone - she was not keen on the idea of confrontation if it could be avoided. She was decent with the bow but her skill lay in hunting, not fighting goblin hordes. Normally, she was loathe to stick anything that did not deserve a good sticking but even if the little dagger could actually stick, it would not be able to stick fast and deadly enough to protect her from an onslaught of goblins, most of which were probably equipped with pointier sticks than her own.

She could possibly change her form and slink away into the darkness but that meant leaving behind any provisions she had to be plundered by the approaching creatures. Having only been on the road for three days, that idea was not at all appealing. As such, being out of options and soon out of time, Orla swept up her blanket and bedroll and stuffed them hurriedly into her bag. Ignoring the protest of her still injured shoulder, she shrugged on the heavy, messily packed bag and darted into the shadows.

Down the rock face she slid, her hip and side scraping painfully against the gravel and stone. Grains of dirt and rockdust went up into her boots and pants' legs and she cursed the pitfall of clothing as she came stumbling to her feet at the _tiny_ path below. The road she had been traveling earlier had been meant for carts and horses. The one she now found herself on had been meant for bunny rabbits.

Above her, past the 20 or so feet of mountain she had just come down, she could hear the goblins as they came upon the site where she had been sleeping. Stupid by nature, they might not have noticed the disturbed earth where she had lain but they would almost certainly smell her. 'Almost certainly' transcended into 'certainly' when Orla heard the crowing grow so loud that it pierced the night for miles around.

"Man flesh! Man flesh!" one of them cried in its awful, guttural voice.

"I smells it!" another shouted gleefully.

"Fresh!" Man-flesh cried again. " _Fressshhh_!"

Down below, Orla bit down on her lip to keep back a whimper. The sound of the harsh, garbled words was like glass in her ears, scraping and cutting until it reached her brain. She hated goblins, hated their voices and their smell, hated their ugliness and foul nature…but, more immediately, she also feared them. _Where are those dwarves when you need them?_ Her mind fumbled to think of Thorin and Co. but the memory did her no good. She was on her own.

Orla knew that before long she would have to make a run for it. It was no use staying lodged behind a tiny bolder while hoping vainly that the goblins would not smell her scent among the earthy stone. So run she did. Her breath was shallow in a chest tight with fear and with one last shaky exhale, she used the hands that had been splayed over the cold stone at her back to propel herself away from the wall as she bolted down the narrow way.

Three loping strides down the path and she heard the goblins rejoice as they spotted her. Her heart pounded between her ears so loudly that she hardly heard the first words of their song go up. She had thought that there would be more screeching as they came down the mountain after her but she was terribly wrong.

" _Hunting, hunting, crowing, cackling!_

_Down the rock, up, and back!_

_We track, we track, O' lads we track!_

_A tasty bite – bumping, bleeding –_

_Bring it back, lads, bring it back!"_

Their goblin song went up into the night, twisting the wind and tainting the air like the foulest of smoke stacks. Over rock she flew, tripping and tumbling, her natural grace failing her as it was replaced by fearful haste.

" _Running, hunting, hunting, running!_

_Man or elf, we chase and track –_

_Track and track to drag him back,_

_Back to the deep, black crack!"_

Another horrid chorus went up with the accompanying _tap-scratch- tap_ music of claws. Ahead the path had given away, part of the mountain having been weathered to nothing long ago, leaving a massive gap from one side to another. Orla dared not slow her pace even as the path narrowed so much that one foot was slamming down directly in front of the other. Still the gobbling song grew louder and a growl, one so full of frustration and fear that it frightened the very woman who had uttered it, erupted from deep within Orla's chest.

Just then she came to the edge where the not-quite-a-path gave out and with a shouted cry, she leapt. Her arms went out, stretched before her in hopes of catching the far edge, and her feet kicked in mid-air as if to propel her falling body forward. With a loud _crack!_ and subsequent _whoomph!_ her torso hit against the jagged rock of the far side. One knee had come down too hard against the edge and she feared it had been shattered on impact. The joint was fine, however, and with a whining growl, she moved to hoist herself up.

There would be no such luck for her though.

A hand, cold and nasty, closed around her dangling ankle and, before a single cry of surprise could be uttered, the lurker snatched Orla down into the crack, leaving the goblin song ringing in her ears as she was dragged screaming into the cold belly of the Misty Mountains.

.

* * *

.

Whether it was the latest hours of the night or the wee hours of the morning, Bilbo could not be sure. Either way, it was black as pitch when he opened his eyes. After Thorin's outburst and the unwelcome excitement with the stone giants, not to mention the biting cold and the flashing lightning…well, the unadventurous burglar was more than ready to throw in his handkerchief. It took a long while of feeling around in the dark to gather his things, his fingers ghosting blindly over cold rocks and sleeping dwarfs, but eventually he managed to gather his few belongings. The dwarves could sleep the night away if they wanted to but Bilbo was going home. The odd little wolf-woman had seen fit to give him opportunity to do so and he was no longer wont to waste it.

It was only after Bilbo had stood and got his feet settled steadily beneath him that all manner of hell and misfortune broke loose once again. He had only just gathered his nerve to leave Thorin and Co. behind so that he could return with the assistance of his map to the unadventurous safety of the Shire when the floor of the cave began to shake. It shook much like the mountain had when the giants had started up earlier, only this time the danger was much smaller in stature.

As if the trembling floor was not bad enough, creatures –pale, warty creatures – began to filter in by the dozens before Bilbo could say "Sackville-Bagginses." How, when and where they had appeared from, Bilbo hadn't the foggiest, nor did he entirely care, too busy was he sounding the alarm to the dwarves.

"Up! Up! All of you!" Bilbo hollered. "Goblins have come!"

If orcs and wargs were ugly, the hobbit quickly assessed that goblins were their less fortunate cousins. Like a horrible venereal disease, the creatures erupted from every crack and crevice, falling upon the drowsy dwarves with a vengeance. Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin all issued cries but the sound was lost amidst the goblin noise. Bilbo was thrown back against the nearest wall all of a sudden and was promptly squished between a rock and the hard, leather-clad back of Kili. The young dwarf was trying to reach for the sword at his side all while keeping one hand pressed back square in Bilbo's face.

"Stay back against the wall, burglar!" the heir of Durin commanded with surprising fierceness, "The floor is going to –"

The trapped floor took its cue a moment too early and it so happened that being flat against the wall did Bilbo little good. Kili went down into the newly appeared pit with a squeal that might have been funny had his hand not caught in Bilbo's jacket and pulled the hobbit down after him. So it was that thirteen dwarves and a hobbit spiraled down, all crying out to ancestors and spirits and issuing curses as they plummeted nearer to a most undesirable demise.


	12. Bless us and Splash Us

It was during one of those rare instances when Orla's temper got the better of her that she finally decided she had been poked and prodded enough for one evening. Nearly a dozen goblins had grabbed her and were holding fast to her arms and back, their sharp claws digging and pinching in all the wrong places. She smelled the familiar coppery tang as soon as it hit the air and she knew in that moment that they had drawn blood – _her_ blood – and it very near sent her over the edge to know that such vile creatures had marked her.

They bit, teeth clacking like silverware, and they howled each time one of them managed to sink its teeth into Orla's flesh. Her mithril shirt kept most of the damage to a minimum so that bruises were left instead of scratches. But when one sharp mouth came down hard against the plush flesh of her cheek, Orla finally lost her nerve and cried out. Her voice broke beyond its range as her back twisted and arched within the goblins' grips.

Though few beings had ever witnessed her during an onset of one of the blood-boiling rages her people where prone to, it seemed likely that the goblins were soon to get such a chance. Like her father, Orla had the propensity to become viciously protective over certain things should she be pushed too far, just as she had been when the dwarves had been attacked on the plains near Imladris. It came with the animal temperament, she supposed. When fear had set it and her wolf blood had set to pumping like fire in her veins with the need to escape, there was little she could do to fight it. Like any wolf afraid of being caged, Orla began to struggle in earnest against her captors.

With a growl, she lashed out with one of her feet at a nearby goblin and it squealed frightfully, losing its hold on her. Quivering, the creature darted back and scrabbled halfway up the wall before shrieking back at the woman who had attacked it.

"Kill it! Mean it is!" the goblin cried and all around its cronies cackled.

Free from one goblin's grip, Orla managed to jerk one arm free, the same arm that had yet to recover from its wound. Her muscles tensed and she struck the nearest monster to drive him back. On instinct, she reached down and snatched loose Estel's gift from her boot. At first she thought she had missed it, its weight was so light, but her fingers closed around the grip of the blade and relief filled her. The relief all too soon gave way to renewed anger and she whirled around blindly, blade in hand.

She swung for the first thing she could reach – the goblin she had struck with her hand moments before. It was a messy, unpracticed swing but the little elven blade slammed straight into the creature's exposed throat just the same. Orla's eyes grew round with disgust as she felt the puncture and give of flesh; it was a foreign sensation to her. She had skinned many an animal and bitten into meat and bone as a wolf but the feel of the blade as it sunk into living flesh was sickening for one so inexperienced as herself. Her hate for the creatures was not enough to prevent her stomach from tilting as bile rose within the hoarse confines of her throat. Only fear and adrenaline pushed back her rising horror as she snatched the blade free in a spray of black blood.

Her injury did her no favors, nor did her greenness in the handling of a blade in combat. Red-hot pain lanced through her chest and shoulder so that her already trembling hand let the little knife slip down. Its blood-slick edge went slicing through her palm as if the skin had been butter. This time she had only herself to blame for the drawing of her blood. Shaking her head in panic and pain, she grit her teeth and tightened her grip on the blade once more.

All around her the cries of goblins went up, their voices rising in a frenzy of promised retribution. Their songs had ceased and were replaced with curses, all of which were directed solely at Orla, who had since stumbled back. Hand over foot she scrambled away, breath ragged and heart racing. She was quick but angry goblins were quicker.

The tunnel she had been dragged into was one of hundreds that zig-zagged through the inner mountain. The ceiling was only half her height above her head and hardly two shoulder widths wide. The close-quarters turned out to be a small miracle in her benefit as she rushed to put distance between herself and the goblins. In their frenzy, they had all managed to gang up on one another, each snapping its jaws and raking its claws for a chance at her. Orla had once seen the great waves that dashed upon the shoreline far to the west and amid her panic the odd thought struck her that the goblins looked just like one of those waves as they clambered over each other only to be rolled under and trampled on by their brethren behind them. Whatever tactic they were employing did them no favors and only slowed them down as Orla sprinted away.

Through the darkness she ran, fingers tracing along the wall to help guide her through the maze-like tunnel. Behind her the goblin shouts grew louder with their frustration and she feared that the shear noise of it all might bring the rocks down atop her head. Regardless, she dared not stop. She ran until she thought her legs might crumble beneath her and her head might explode from the blood that was throbbing painfully in her ears. And even when the heavy air of the tunnels became so thick she thought she could not take one more breath, she still ran. With the smell of sulfur and iron gripping at her lungs, Orla stumbled through the black hole that stretched on endlessly before and behind her.

.

* * *

.

There were no goblins.

There were no dwarves.

There wasn't any light either.

In short, Bilbo was almost certain that he was dead. For a long while the hobbit just lay flat on his back and looked up at the coal dark sky above him. There were no stars, no moon. In a way, he was disappointed; he had always thought there would a bright, shining sky wherever he was meant to end up, the sort of sky that the elves sing about. But no, instead it was cold and dank and felt awfully similar to a cave.

Something soft and spongy lay beneath him and he was grateful that he had that much, at least. It would do for a little while, though perhaps not for an eternity. _Yes_ , Bilbo thought to himself _, I'll have to see about that. And that confusticated dripping noise! That won't do at all! Not if I have to listen to it through the ages_. He thought that maybe if he wished hard enough that the dripping might stop but when it continued on for minutes more he came to the conclusion that he would just have to go see about it himself. Could he move? He wondered about that suddenly. He had not even tried since he'd woken up dead.

So, Bilbo mustered his resolve and sat up. He very quickly decided then that he was _not_ dead. Dead hobbits did not hurt as badly as he did. Something was jabbing into his gut and he had the appalling idea that it might be one of his ribs. Mumbling in pain, he flexed his fingers gingerly and they, too, felt as if they might pop straight out of the joints and crawl away. His bottom hurt, his legs hurt, his back and shoulders hurt. Everything hurt.

Vaguely, he remembered tumbling down a great big hole, well two actually, and they had been nearly back to back. He and the dwarves had slid down into the goblins' trap and then shortly thereafter he had had the rotten luck of falling down a second hole after being separated from the dwarves as they were jostled about between the goblins.

At the very least, he wasn't dead. Bilbo supposed that was a positive. Then again, not being dead meant that he was still alive and stuck somewhere in the forsaken pit of the Misty Mountains _and_ not being near any dwarves meant that he was alone in said pit.

In short, Bilbo came to the conclusion that he was experiencing the worst day of his life. Or perhaps it was night. He really had no idea of knowing.

For a few minutes, he was only brave enough to grope around since he was not quite willing to stand up just yet. In his fingers' exploration of the immediate area, Bilbo discovered two things. First, he thought that the bed he had been lying on was not really a bed at all but was instead a dense patch of mushrooms. Second, he found something more important, something which in retrospect might have gone better for him and a whole legion of other folks down the road if he had not found it at all.

His fingers danced blindly over something tiny and solid among the mushroom caps and he went round for a second feel. It was a very lucky thing that he did, as his grip then closed around a little object that felt to his numb fingers to be a ring. It was small and round and the cold of its metal went unnoticed by his chilled digits. Perplexed but too sore to really care, Bilbo shoved the little band of gold into his pocket, promising himself that he would take a look later.

Stalwartly ignoring his aches and pains, Bilbo climbed slowly to his feet. He rubbed at his eyes, grimy fingers scraping muck all over his lids, and when he opened them he was relieved to see that they had adjusted somewhat to the darkness. He still could not see but he could at least make out the varying shades of black and blacker that surrounded him on each side.

There was some light at the end of the tunnel – figuratively, because there was no literal light to be seen at all for poor Bilbo. Being a hobbit, a fact of which he was infinitely proud, meant that he spent more time underground than most any other race in Middle Earth, except for maybe goblins and dwarves, but that was beside the point. Granted, the tunnels Bilbo was used to were considerably more comfortable than the one he was in now. His sense of direction underground had not been lost after his bump on the head, thankfully, and as such he was able to point his hairy hobbit feet in the general direction of what he was desperately hoping would be the way out.

For what felt like long ages and at times mere seconds, Bilbo shuffled through the tight tunnel, going down and back up again as he tried to keep himself routed in one direction. It was through chance that he thought of the sword at his side and of the fact that Gandalf had told him once that it would glow in the dark. "Glow in the dark" was not entirely accurate, Bilbo decided as he drew the little blade from its sheath. It only gave off the faintest of sheens, like a candle that had reached the very end of its wick. Still, it was more than he'd had a minute ago and he was pleased to use it to help find his way.

When the dripping sound from earlier had finally grown so loud that Bilbo came to the conclusion that he must be right on top it, he finally stopped. Just in time, too, because one step more and he would have stumbled right into the subterranean lake that lay before him. Seeing the glint of the sword's light upon the water, Bilbo grew brave enough to stick the tip of his large toe into the water and then, when he grew even braver, his whole foot.

_So, it's a lake after all and not some puddle. No need in knowing that though unless there's a stream leading into it from outside._ He listened hard for a good long while for the sound of running water and eventually ascertained that there was no such stream. The lake was just a lake.

It was only as he was standing about, wondering helplessly what he was to do, that Bilbo became aware of the hair that was standing straight up on his neck. He'd gotten the same feeling once before when he'd caught one of the Sackville-Bagginses looking in on him from one of his windows. His cousin Lubelia had spied on him for a long while before Bilbo had ever realized she was there. Now in the cave, Bilbo tried to convince himself that it was just bats or rats that had their ugly eyes on him. It could not be goblins for Sting would have been glowing brighter if they were about.

Indeed, it was not until he received the scare of his life that Bilbo became aware of what, or _who_ , was actually watching him there on the lake's edge.

"Bless us and splash us, my precious! What is it? _Gollum, gollum_!"

All too loudly the voice came from nowhere and was spoken right into Bilbo's ear before the hobbit could even think to be surprised. With a terrified howl, Bilbo leapt backwards until his back was to a boulder and he could retreat no further. Out of the darkness, two huge, pale orbs appeared and in his frightened state, Bilbo realized that they were eyes. They were the big sort, the kind that nasty, crawly things have so that they can see in the dark.

"Who are you?" Bilbo demanded. He swung Sting out directly in front of him so that its tip was pointed right between the lurker's luminous eyes.

"Asked it first, didn't we, precious?" The thing replied back.

Having someone to talk to so suddenly threw poor Bilbo for a loop and he stuttered during his answer. "B-Bilbo Baggins, at your service, though I do hope you don't ask me to do anything. I've lost both my way and the dwarves. I don't know where I am and I don't really want to, I just want to know the way out."

An awful coughing sound came from the creature's throat suddenly and went on it bouts of two and three, sounding to Bilbo's ears like g _ollum-gollum._ Shortly after, the thing moved right on along and asked of Bilbo, "What's it got in its handses?"

"A sword," Bilbo replied anxiously and he waved the blade about to make sure the creature saw just how close it was.

The creature became very quiet all of a sudden and when he spoke again, he sounded much more polite than he had previously. "Praps we just sits here and talks with it a bit, precious? It likes riddles, praps? Does it, precious? Gollum, gollum!"

Eager to please the creature, since he was not quite sure whether or not it was going to eat him, Bilbo agreed. "You ask first," he suggested when a riddle did not come to his mind quick enough.

Gollum, whose namesake was the awful choking cough he had, asked his riddle and the answer came quick enough to Bilbo's mind. Truthfully, it was an old, well known riddle and he had heard it before but he saw no reason to tell the creature as much.

Gollum appeared displeased with Bilbo's having guessed correctly and his bug like eyes narrowed into brightly glowing slits. His thin lips pursed over his sparse teeth and his nose scrunched up as he pulled an awful face. Bilbo feared that perhaps this game of riddles had not been such a safe idea after all. Gollum croaked a new addendum to the rules and set Bilbo's stomach to churning every which way as a result.

"It must have a competition with us! If precious asks, and it doesn't answer, we eats whole. If it asks us, and we doesn't answer, then we shows it the way out? Yes!"

Bilbo was not foolhardy enough to disagree and nodded his head vigorously. To his relief, a riddle came to mind and he asked it quickly, hoping all the while that this Gollum creature would not answer. Unfortunately, the creature did answer, being very keen on riddles, and the game went back and forth for some time, Gollum's temper growing all the while.

"Sss, my precious, we thinks it's cheating!"

"No, no!" Bilbo cried, alarmed. "No cheating here. Now, now, it's my turn."

Indeed it was, though Bilbo thought he had perhaps lost count of the score somewhere along the way. Desperate to escape the little lake in the cave, Bilbo thought of the most difficult riddle he knew. He had asked it often over tea back in Hobbiton and not once had anyone ever guessed it.

"Alright, here it is," he said, "No legs lay on one leg, two legs sat on three legs, four legs got some."

The answer came in three parts and Bilbo was nearly struck dumb when Gollum came back with all of them, quoting them as simply as if he'd said what was for dinner.

"Fish on the table, man at the table on a stool, the cat got the bones. But we doesn't like bones, do we, precious? Nooo. Does _it_ have bones?" Gollum took a slinking step closer to the hobbit then, his head cocked hungrily to the side. "Well, does it? Is it scrumptious? Is it…juicy?"

Jaw dropping open, Bilbo cried in horror, "Now, wait just a minute! I-It's your turn! Go on, ask."

Thankfully, this distracted Gollum long enough to get his mind off of crunchy, juicy hobbits and a moment later his last riddle came.

"This thing all things devours, birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; slays kings, ruins towns, and beats high mountains down."

Bilbo thought for sure that his time was over. He had no idea. He though as hard as he could with Gollum's threats whispering in his ear all the while. The answer only just came to him in time. "Time!" he shouted, "Time!"

He might as well have kicked Gollum for all the good it got him because the foul little creature gave a great cry upon hearing his answer and dashed round in circles, beating his hands against rock and self.

"You must show me the way out –" Bilbo started. He had a mind to raise his blade up again just in case.

"No! One more," Gollum growled through clenched teeth. Suddenly, it was if Bilbo were looking back at a completely different creature. Gollum had changed so swiftly, so suddenly that it had been like blowing out a candle, light to dark in an instant. Bilbo knew then that he had to go. Even if he won this game of riddles, he doubted very much that the creature in front of him would hold to its end of the bargain. Backing away, Bilbo thought of the first thing he could.

"What have I got in my pocket?"

"Handses!"

"Wrong."

With another snarl, Gollum tried again. "Knife!"

"Guess again!"

Bilbo was steadily backing away and had managed by this time to put some distance between himself and the creature that was probably going to eat him sooner rather than later if he did not escape. Hissing and sputtering, Gollum danced around, tossing rocks and fish bones and anything else he could get his hands on. _Yes,_ Bilbo thought, _it is most definitely time to go._

"A-are you looking for something? Come now," he coaxed, "You can look after the game."

Just as he had this thought, Gollum ceased his tantrum and went stock still. His arms and legs no longer flailed. His hissing had stopped. Bilbo suspected that the mad creature had even stopped breathing.

"How," spat the creature, "How's it know we's looking for something, precious? Why's it ask us? Gollum, gollum! Knows what we're looking for, it does. We bets it does!"

With a loud whoop, Gollum leapt at Bilbo and came down just in front of him. "What's the matter?" Bilbo asked as he stumbled away. "Have you lost something?"

"Not its business! Tells us, what's it got in its pocketses?"

Without thinking of how it was exactly the wrong thing to do, Bilbo drove his hands into his pockets nervously. He had all but forgotten about the little ring he had stuck in there until he had asked his riddle. Now he thought he would have been better off thinking of a different one.

"Tells us!" Gollum shrieked. A boney white hand lashed out at Bilbo and the hobbit was just quick enough on his feet to miss it. Forgetting all about riddles and politely asking the way out, Bilbo scrambled away and up the nearest cropping of rocks.

It was completely accidental, or perhaps he did it on instinct, but either way Bilbo slipped the little gold band onto his finger as he went. It was like being sucked into the eye of a tornado when he did. The world around him faded of all color – not that there had been much there in the cave to begin with – and all around him swirled the rocks and stones, all twisting and mixing like watercolors on canvas.

What had happened, Bilbo dared not stop to ponder for an ear-splitting cry went up behind him as Gollum lurched forward again. He screamed and screamed, whirling in circles as his skeletal fists pounded the dark ground.

Bilbo could only sit back and watch with wonder as to why the creature did not just come at him. It was only a passing thought that it was as if he were invisible. _But that must be it_ , Bilbo thought. Twisting the ring on his finger, he sat in awe of it until he saw Gollum dash by on all fours. The creature ran to the far side of the cavern and then disappeared from sight.

Bilbo followed suit, realizing that Gollum had likely assumed that he had escaped that way with his precious. It was a long chase, filled with twists and turns. Sometimes Bilbo could only guess Gollum's path by following the sounds of his hateful shrieks. He just did catch sight of the creature's pale foot as it disappeared around a corner and after him he went.

After a few turns and many a roundabout, the air finally began to grow fresher. It was like breathing in honey and roses for Bilbo's lungs, which were undoubtedly caked in a thick layer of dust and choked with the worst sort of mountain air. Unwittingly, Gollum was leading him out, he realized. _And to think! I didn't even win the game._ Though it was invisible, a smile crept onto Bilbo's face as he padded through the tunnel after Gollum.

Up ahead a fork appeared in the tunnel, its branches going off in opposite directions. Problem was, Gollum's cries had ceased for the time being and Bilbo had no earthly idea which way he was supposed to go.

Since there was no one around to hear, he said aloud, "Oh, bother it all!"

Stopping there in the middle of the path, he looked about. He wished he had a sign or a map or dwarves or a wizard or even Gollum. Anything would do. He was in the middle of deducing which path would be the best choice when he heard footsteps coming at him from the tunnel on the right. Fear gripped him hard and fast in its clutches and his chest grew tight as he realized he had nowhere to hide. Then he remembered that he was invisible and settled right back down accordingly.

The person that came into view was not at all who he had expected. A fair but dirtied head appeared through the darkness first and soon after Bilbo saw a bloodied face he had not expected to see again. It was Orla and she looked hurt and exhausted, her steps mere staggers compared to the grace he had seen her walk with several days earlier.

He opened his mouth to call out to her but she had already stopped. She lifted her head and greasy locks of dull gold spilled into her face only to be wiped lazily away with a dingy hand. Bilbo saw her little nose narrow and then flare with the intake and exhale of a breath. She did it again and then once more. He wondered what she was doing and then the idea struck him that she was part wolf, or some portion wolf. _She smells me_ , he realized with wonder. Somewhat dolefully he glanced at his dirty clothes and skin and decided that it was no wonder she could smell him. _He_ could smell him.

Not wishing to strain the tired woman's senses further, Bilbo tugged off the ring. His lack of visibility was remedied immediately and the grayscale color palette of the tunnels returned once more. Orla leapt back in voiceless alarm, her eyes and mouth opened wide as she stared at what had just appeared in front of her.

"Orla!" Bilbo chirped with as much cheer as was possible at the moment. "I'm so glad to see you! There's this awful creature running around and I can't find the dwarves or Gandalf and the way out is a complete mystery and –"

His words were cut short as he felt himself being snatched forward and wrapped up in a great, lung-clenching hug. Though she said nothing, Orla held him fast, twisting him this way and that so fiercely he thought they both might fall over from it. Since she was not that tall, even for a woman of Men, Bilbo's head just did reach midway between her elbow and shoulder, a height which made the hug somewhat awkward for him. She patted his head and cooed wordlessly against his hair and all in all he decided she was as happy to see him as he was her.

Stepping away, he whispered, "Did those awful things catch you, too?"

Orla nodded, her head bobbing up and down quickly.

"Have you seen the dwarves?"

The woman shook her head but pointed to her nose.

"You've tracked them then? Have they been this way? Can you –"

Brushing off his questions, Orla took his hand and decided to show him instead. She led him along and though her elation had left her rejuvenated, she was still moving too slowly for Bilbo's liking. They took the left hand path in the fork. Seeing as how she had come down the right hand tunnel, Bilbo assumed that it did not lead out.

"The air is getting fresher, can you smell it? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you can."

Indeed, the air was another motivator for them as they hurried as fast as their weary feet could carry them. Not long after, they both rounded a corner and laid eyes on the most glorious sight either of them had seen in recent memory – the mouth of the tunnel. Light from outside shown inward and its dusky rays hurt their eyes but neither of them wished to even blink, too afraid that if they did the way might disappear. The scent of pine and wind swept in, filling their noses and lungs better than the smell of warm biscuits on a Sunday morning.

With a sigh of well-deserved relief, Bilbo started to say, "We should –"

" _Thiefffff_! Baggins!" The shriek broke the calm air with the shrillness of someone clashing cymbals in a sleeping man's ear.

Orla's panic was written all over her face as her brows rocketed up into her hairline. She moved to snatch Bilbo behind her but he tugged his hand free and earned himself a fierce look in response.

_What is that?_ Her brows had come back down only to pinch together as she tried to sort out the source of the cry. She looked to Bilbo and he answered her truthfully, "I don't know what he is."

"We hates it! We hates it forever!" The shouting was growing nearer as if Gollum was headed back toward the exit of the mountain. Somehow, someway, he had wound up behind them.

Bilbo watched as Orla shrugged off something oblong and narrow from her shoulders – a bow, he soon realized – and she passed it off to him. A quiver full of arrows and then a gory little dagger soon followed. She slipped them over his shoulders and into his belt quick as she could, leaving little room for argument.

Free of her weapons, Orla put a firm hand on Bilbo's back and urged him forward. _Go! Run!_

Without a word of protest, Bilbo turned and hurried forward. There was a great rush of air from behind him and when he glanced back Orla was gone and instead there sat a wolf, its tawny fur matted and stained with blood. Bilbo would not have believed it, _should not_ have believed it, if he had not figured out already that the little woman could do such a thing. There was little time to think of such things at the moment, however, and Bilbo did his best to embrace his Took heritage for the time being. The Baggins' practicality could come later.

With Orla shielding him from behind, Bilbo sprinted forward, tumbling head over heels into the sunlight and heaving huge breaths of fresh air and dirt as he went.


	13. Wind Beneath Their Wings

Thirteen dwarves and a wizard were gathered on the side of a mountain. Kili thought it sounded like the start of one of Bofur's bad jokes but it was true. The entire group had erupted from the mouth of the tunnels and spilled into the open air of the wooded mountainside not fifteen minutes earlier. They were all breathing heavily, their barrel chests rising up and down in synchronized huffs. Sweat covered their brows and goblin blood soaked their clothes but not a one of them cared.

They had escaped. The Goblin King was dead.

And so was their hobbit.

Kili's head sagged between his shoulders at the thought. The halfling had disappeared right after the goblins had rounded them up. Kili had tried to do what he could but it had been to no avail after they had gone down that accursed sliding trap that formed when the floor had fallen through the night before. Even Thorin was looking downcast. Instead of being held square, the future King Under the Mountain's shoulders drooped low and in his face his nephew read every bitter year that the elder dwarf had lived.

Gandalf stood nearby and suddenly he did not seem nearly as tall as Kili remembered him being. His back was hunched and his eyes hidden behind the shadow of his hat. When he had appeared in a flash of brilliant light in Goblin Town, Kili had thought him a hero, a force to be reckoned with. Now, he just looked like an old man, tired and out of answers.

"He can't really be gone," Bombur said of Bilbo when his breathing had evened some.

"I saw him slip away," Nori offered hopefully, "Fella's so small I don't think the goblins even noticed him."

Kili felt some hope at hearing Nori's words. "Maybe he's alive," said the young dwarf.

All it did was earn him a hard glare from his uncle, who no doubt was of the opinion that his nephew's naiveté was showing through. "Even if he is, do you think the fool is going to escape the horde in those mountains?"

Though Kili was not brave enough to argue, Gandalf dared to speak up in his stead. "He is no fool! He is my friend and I feel responsible for him. I wish to goodness that you had not lost him."

Thorin shook his head. "He's been more trouble than use so far. I will not risk these dwarves to go back for him."

"I do not bring useless things on journeys such as this one!" Gandalf snapped back, his voice growing loud so that it seemed to shake even the leaves in the trees. "If you do not go and recover what you have lost, Thorin, then I dare say I will leave you alone to your own devices on the side of this mountain!"

Thorin's head shot up and his shoulders finally found their strength so that they squared on the wizard. "He is of no use! We will find a new burglar, a better one, if we have to."

"There is nothing wrong with the burglar you lost!" Gandalf argued, shaking his hand angrily and pointing his walking stick back up the mountain.

Fili stepped forward and his brother moved to draw him back out of the fray but the older sibling shook him off. "Now listen here!" Fili began in brave protest, "Between the goblins and the running and the fighting, we hardly had time to look for our missing burg –"

"He's not missing," Kili interrupted suddenly. He had by chance glanced back up the mountain just in time to see the burglar in question headed straight for them, and with some pep in his step at that. Bilbo was striding purposely toward them and further behind him loped someone Kili had not thought to ever see again.

All the dwarves and Gandalf looked up in unison.

"Well, what d'ya know? Mr. Baggins! Nice of you to join us!" Bofur shouted happily, clapping his hands together in joy at seeing the little hobbit.

"Here I am!" Bilbo cried. He hurried on down to them and passed them all to go straight to Gandalf, who clapped the halfling on the shoulder so hard it nearly knocked Bilbo to the ground.

"Look who I found, Gandalf," he said, turning to point at the wolf who had limped behind him all the way through the group of dwarves. Though her light brandy colored fur was smeared with blood and matted with dirt that did not stop her from sitting demurely in front of the wizard.

"My dear!" Gandalf remarked with surprise. Reaching down to run a hand through the dingy fur behind the wolf's ears, he whispered, "Don't you know you're headed in the wrong direction from Forochel?"

She gave a loud huff and cut her eyes to the hobbit in silent explanation.

Nearby, behind the rest of the dwarves, Kili was steadily shaking his head. The hobbit's arrival he could be believe – it was stretch but the burglar had the potential. But the wolf? No, Kili was not quite certain he had not been imagining things when he saw her. Ever since leaving Rivendell, he had tried and partially managed to put the heroic animal out of his mind. There had been a time or two back in the Goblin Town when he had caught himself wishing for the wolf's keen jaws but those thoughts had been fleeting in the moment. He had all but given up on the creature's survival, having received no solid evidence to prove otherwise besides the too-eager words of the elves. He glanced around, eyes flitting from one face to another to find that the rest of his companions were as puzzled by the hobbit's appearance with the creature as he was.

Thorin in particular seemed perplexed by the new arrivals. Though his eyes were wide in with disbelief – not to mention mildly impressed – at the hobbit's survival, there was still the cold flash of suspicion in their depths as he took in the wolf's unexpected return to the party. If Thorin had been assured of the wolf's allegiance to them after her sacrifice on the plains, he certainly did not know what to make of her sudden reappearance. Kili could see the wheels of thought turning behind his uncle's eyes but as he was unable to sort out his own thoughts at the moment, he could hardly expect to decipher what Thorin was thinking as well.

Nearby, the halfling's words came out in an excited flurry and he only just managed to catch himself before calling the wolf by name. "Orl – I mean, she got snatched by the goblins. She found me by chance as I was searching for a way out."

Neither Gandalf nor the wolf had any time to respond before there came a shuffle from the back of the gathered dwarves. The youngest of them had pushed his way to the front, as had his uncle. Several attempts at voicing his disbelief came sputtering from Kili's lips as he looked to the wolf. His dark eyes had grown wide in disbelief and he wavered where he stood, head cocked in unbelieving puzzlement. Even Thorin appeared surprised, one eye brow slanted thoughtfully at the wolf's appearance.

Gandalf's previously somber eyes were twinkling with an odd mix of amusement and relief. He chuckled at the dwarves and their obvious – though understandable – surprise. Looking down at the wolf, who had made it a point to keep her back to the dwarves as she was no doubt unwilling to face them just yet, Gandalf said to her, "I do believe you have some explaining to do, my friend."

" _You_!" Kili croaked suddenly, his voice pitched high in his surprise.

The wolf chuffed noisily and shut her eyes for a long moment before looking pitifully to Bilbo and the wizard for aid. It was no use, not that Gandalf would have helped her then and Bilbo did not have the chance, for Kili continued, having found his words at last. Striding forward, an accusing finger jabbing at the wolf with every step, Kili cried, "You mutt! I was worried about you, you miserable dog! And look at you! You're fine! Hardly worse for wear considering how we left you."

The young dwarf came to halting stop inches from the wolf. She was looking up at him through eyes so disturbingly unamused they were hardly canine. In the short week or so since he had last seen her, Kili had not forgotten how piercing those eyes were. Another face came to his mind's eye then upon noticing their familiarity, one that was girlish and sweet, but he shook the impossible idea away. With the wolf's gaze refusing to waver from his, it seemed that they were at an impasse.

Finally, the short-lived stalemate was ended when the wolf gave a loud and seemingly apologetic whine before nosing her snout under Kili's palm. Like a child with a troublesome puppy, all was quickly forgiven and forgotten. Though it was late in coming, the first smile of the day crept up at the corners of Kili's lips as he ran his hands all over the wolf's head and down to the soft but dirty fur of her neck. It did not escape his notice that she shifted uncomfortably when his hand passed over one shoulder, her injury still unhealed.

The reunion was short lived as Thorin stepped forward, though just about everyone present did notice that the dwarf king's hand did sneak discreetly over to stroke the wolf's muzzle just once.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked her directly. It was about as much respect as an animal could garner from one such as Thorin. Instead of waiting for an answer that he knew would not come, he turned to Gandalf.

"I thought you said she was no pet of yours but it seems she follows you just the same."

The wizard gave a dismissive roll of his shoulders and tilted his face so as to look up into the sky rather than at Thorin. "I doubt she meant to come this way. But perhaps that is a question better left to her." The old Maiar gave a pointed look at the wolf, whose eyes had found a particular interest in her own paws.

Bilbo nudged her softly and gave her a fond pat on the back. He then looked over at Thorin and explained, "As I said, the goblins caught her. She escaped them and must have caught our scent in the tunnels."

"What would goblins want with a wolf?" Thorin inquired, his voice laced with a distinct note of doubt. There was something in his eyes that continued to go unspoken as he reached again to stroke a cautious hand over the wolf's head.

It was a point that left the hobbit groping for an excuse. When he came up with nothing, he took another path instead. "Well, it doesn't much matter now, does it? She, er, the wolf is here, I'm here, and so is Gandalf. We're a company again."

"The lad makes a good point, Thorin," Balin called from nearby. "I for one am glad to have the beast back."

"Aye," Gloin agreed, "as good a nanny as you could ask for."

"Nanny!" Kili protested. Even Bilbo winced in offence as the red-haired dwarf's good natured jab.

With the dwarves in agreement, it appeared that they could all continue on. Night would be falling soon and the mountain side was no place for them to wander. With Kili reluctant to leave the wolf's side, Bilbo was left to walk beside him, which in turn meant that he was too near Thorin to escape any further scrutiny. Just as they were all readying themselves to move on, everyone stopped once more when they heard Thorin call to the halfling.

"Just a moment, burglar."

Bilbo froze, wondering to himself what he could have possibly done wrong in the short time he had been back. It was not until Thorin's hand reached to Bilbo's shoulder to tug at the string that had been slipped diagonally across the hobbit's chest. The hobbit went a paler shade of white all of a sudden, remembering the bow and quiver on his back. The bow was nearly his height, so how he had forgotten about it with it clunking at his heels, he did not know. But Thorin's keen eyes had noticed when others had not, so distracted were they by the hobbit's return.

"Where did you get this?" Thorin asked curiously, thumbing the bow as he reached past Bilbo's head.

All around, the dwarves watched as Bilbo floundered, looking to Gandalf and then to the wolf. But the wolf had moved on, slinking away from his side to a point several yards away. She was looking back up the mountain, ears perked forward as she listened for something unheard by the rest.

"That's a fine bow," Kili remarked, "But it's of elvish make. Goblins wouldn't have that sort of thing, would they, Uncle?"

Thorin shook his head and said lowly, "No, they would not."

A fine sweat had broken out over Bilbo's brow and even Gandalf had begun to notice. In an effort to protect the little hobbit, who was looking more and more panicked with each passing moment beneath Thorin's stare, the old wizard suggested helpfully, "Our burglar is a remarkably lucky one. No doubt he salvaged the weapon on his way out."

Bilbo nodded his head too vigorously to be convincing.

"Or perhaps he did not," Thorin grumbled.

He removed his hand from the bow a moment later but not before eyeing the hobbit so peculiarly that Bilbo, who was not so very good under such pressure, could not keep himself from glancing involuntarily at the wolf. The split second Bilbo's eyes lingered on the wolf's form proved to be enough for Thorin, as the dark of his eyes grew keener and flashed in the fading light. His brow pulled low but by some miracle he said nothing further to the hobbit.

Bilbo took a big gulp, feeling as if he was swallowing rocks, and he cut his gaze over to Gandalf. The wizard pursed his lips and shook his head before he, too, turned away.

The others had not made it far from Bilbo when they heard the first bout of growls cut through the quiet and quickly dimming evening. Nearby, the wolf's hackles rose, knotting up around her shoulders as fierce as anything Bilbo had ever seen. Not one among the company had time to question her sudden hostility as her head pitched back and she gave a great, bellowing howl of warning. A few short moments later and a chorus of howled responses rolled down from higher up the mountainside. Those howls had been deeper, more feral, and when the dwarves heard the sounds they did not hesitate a second longer before breaking into a run.

The wolf whirled about and with just a few struggling lopes she was by Bilbo's side, nipping at his heels and nudging him after the group. The hobbit understood her urgency soon enough and moments later he was sprinting after the others, the wolf by his side with each step. Curses flew up from several mouths as the dwarves hurried away for it seemed that their rotten luck had returned full force.

It was Thorin who summed up the feeling best when he growled, "Out of the frying pan and into fire!"

Sure enough, it was not long before the unlucky group came to the edge of the cliff and there they were confronted with the unpleasant prospect of having no more mountain to flee down. The only options left were to either climb or jump and seeing as how dwarves were not best known for flight, the answer to their predicament was clear.

Gandalf shouted to them all, "Up into the trees!"

A few of the dwarves made to argue but whether they were silenced by their own breathlessness or the sight of the sheer cliff appearing before them, one would be hard pressed to tell. A few of the stronger dwarves braced themselves alongside the bases of the tallest and nearest trees so that they could boost up the others. The most agile of them scaled to the lowest branches before turning back to help their comrades. Fear was a powerful motivator and as such thirteen dwarves and a wizard were soon scattered about in three or four trees.

The hobbit, quick though he was, arrived seconds too late to get a boost up and was left to weave from tree to tree, searching for the lowest branch he could find. Gibbering and cursing his rotten luck, he hopped around at the base of a tall pine, grabbing for the hands that dangled down to try and catch him. All the while, the wolf keened and whined beside him, begging him to hurry.

"I can't reach you!" Bilbo cried as he just barely missed Dwalin's and Balin's hands.

"Jump, Master Baggins!" Balin shouted, more fretful than anyone had heard sound him before. "The wargs will be on you soon!"

Dwalin seconded the sentiment, growling, "I'll come down there and get you if you make me, burglar!"

Several trees away, the youngest of the dwarves was fretting for an entirely different reason. Kili's thoughts were for the wolf that had saved him rather than the hobbit, who at least had some hope of climbing out of the wargs' reach. His voice loud over the growing ruckus, he called out, "Run! Bilbo, tell her she must run –"

His pleas made no difference as their sound was drowned out with a new chorus of screeches and howls. The wargs and their riders were nearer now and Bilbo was still stuck on the ground, sure as ever to be eaten within the next minute or two.

The wolf whined louder and looked up at the hobbit through wild silver eyes. It was then that Bilbo saw the shadow of the human in her eyes, their grey depths too fearful and pleading to be mistaken for those of an animal.

"I can make it!" Bilbo said to her, determined, and he leapt again for Dwalin's outstretched hand. Once again, he missed. With a frustrated shout, he whirled to face the wolf.

"Go! Please, go!" he begged her, shooing his arms at her. "You must!"

The stubborn animal would not budge from his side.

Grumbling and cursing, Dwalin had watched the pitiful show long enough and he moved to swing down from the safety of his tree limb, for he had glanced up through the trees to see the wave of wargs charging furiously toward them. It was as Balin had said, the beasts would be there soon.

He had not moved far at all before he stilled as there came a soft rush of air into his face, just enough to blow at his beard. He and Balin both blinked against the little gust and when they had opened their eyes again, Bilbo was being shoved into their grasping hands. A pair of slender, pale arms had wrapped around the hobbit's waist and had lifted him up off the ground high enough to reach the lowest branch.

Orla passed him off, stumbling back as Bilbo's kicking legs nearly struck her. She hit the ground with a hard thud and when she looked up there were thirteen pairs of wide eyes staring back at her.

All around, cries of disbelief went up. Dwarven voices carried into the air, their shouts louder than the howls of the approaching wargs.

"It can't be!" one of them cried.

"Impossible!" shouted another.

"Witch!"

The sounds of surprise and fear rose up, ringing in Orla's ears as they continued to drum with her heart beat.

"Trickster! Beast!"

"Durin bless me!"

Orla dared not linger on the ground long enough to listen to the accusations being tossed at her. Instead, with a grunt of strain, she went to leap for the branch above her head. A few painfully long inches kept her from making it. Her muscles protested when she landed on her feet once more, the tissue suddenly recalling the hours spent stumbling through the darkness of the mountain. She leapt again and this time her fingers caught a flimsy hold on the branch. Her arms ached though, too tired to hold her weight. Barely healed flesh tore under the strain and blood flowed forth down her collar and between her breasts.

Any other day she could have climbed trees with the skill of any ranger of the Du̒nedain. Today though, her own body was her undoing, its strain and exhaustion pressing down on her like solid weight.

Bilbo was reaching for her moments later, his small hands closing around one of her wrists as he pulled at her. "Help her," he cried as he tried vainly to pull her up, "I cannot lift her! Somebody help her, please!"

"Get away from that creature, fool!" Dwalin growled from the limb above the hobbit.

Bilbo did not heed him, his small hands still scrabbling to hold onto Orla. Another voice carried over Dwalin's as the dwarf's elder brother shouted, "Durin's beard, brother! Help him with the lass!"

Dwalin, long set in his ways and distrustful of beasts who turned into women, refused to listen.

Finally, Orla could hold herself up no longer. She let go and thumped back down to the ground painfully. Scrabbling to her feet, one hand pressed to her wound to stave off the flow of blood, she looked around for any branches that might prove easier to climb.

"Over here, girl!" Bofur cried, prompting Orla ceased her frantic attempts to reach the hobbit.

At once, she looked to Bilbo and met his eyes, so wide with fear for her, before she jerked one finger at the halfling and urged him to climb higher. Bilbo gulped, swallowing his worry for her, and did she bid.

Too many yards away, Bofur yelled again, "Here!"

Soon Orla was off and sprinting as quick as her sore feet would let her for the dwarf's outstretched hand as it dangled down from a nearby pine. She was not a meter from him when a set of stocky arms reached around the miner's shoulders and forcefully drew away his offer of aid. Bifur held his kind-hearted and struggling cousin tight, crying out in furious Khuzdul all the while.

Staggered by the sudden withdrawal of aid, Orla floundered, her swirling thoughts halting with her movements. She considering running, thinking about leaving the dwarves and the wargs behind but she had nowhere to go there on the jutting peak. It was a shear drop should she go over the side of the cliff and she could certainly not go back unless she wanted to run headlong into a pack of wargs and their riders.

"Fools!" She heard Gandalf bellow from the upper branches of his fir tree. "Run, Orla," he called to her, "for they will not help you! Curse them to their blasted stone!"

Orla refused to believe it. Her heart clenched upon seeing the backs that had been turned against her. She searched for the wizard, her mouth agape in the face of a feeling she had not felt in a decade. Only once before had she known betrayal. But that had been long ago and the circumstances had not been so life threatening. It was not so long past, however, for her to forget the feeling. The white hot bitterness she had strove so long to forget came flooding back, coloring her cheeks and tightening her throat.

Her jerky, confused movements faltered as she ended her panicked search for help. Where one dwarf shouted for her, two others denounced her. Bilbo screamed for her, his voice shrill with his distress. Had Dwalin not kept hold of the hobbit's coat, the little one would have likely climbed back down.

Orla spun round in one last attempt to spot aid, her eyes wild and searching for anyone who would help her. Her thoughts went to Kili, whom she had not seen or heard since helping Bilbo into the trees. _Where is he? Surely…_ He would help her; out of them all, he would not forsake her.

From just below the wizard's branch, Orla's gaze fell on Fili as the fair dwarf held fast to his younger brother. There was no struggle between the two brothers, no fight to reach her. Even across the distance, Kili's eyes were like those of a man too shell-shocked to move.

_Help me,_ she begged him from below the tree, _Kili, dwarf, please! Help me._

From his perch above, Kili shook his head. A refusal.

The sickening feeling of having been denied flowed over her, numbing her to the very tips of her fingers. It was only by chance that she saw him shake his head again, followed by a third time. Perhaps, though she did not have time to consider it, the gesture had not been a refusal after all but rather a movement to force himself out of his stupor. He had only just begun to struggle within his brother's grip when the loudest of the howls sounded from behind Orla.

It was too late. The wargs were too close.

With a growl, Orla whirled about. Her mind was made up. She would do the only thing she could. She was one of Beorn's folk, raised by her father to be peaceful and gentle. But Beorn had also instilled in her a fierce desire to protect the things she valued. He had taught her to be brave in the face of a world that would judge those such as her harshly. Much like Beorn fought for and protected his lands and the creatures under his care, Orla would do the same for the dwarves. When the goblins had come for her on the mountain, she had only herself to defend and that alone had not been enough. To threaten those she sought to protect was a step too far. Her duty to them had ended in Rivendell but, though she doubted there was little she could do to help them now, she would dare to draw blood for them just the same. They would have time to consider their judgment of her later should they make it off of the mountain alive.

She closed her eyes and wished for her form to change.

The air grew thick around her, tightening about her as it did in the moments before the wolf-shape took her. She was on the cusp of shifting when something gripped her from behind. She knew then that she had wavered too long in inaction. The first of the wargs had fallen upon her, its jaws soon to lock into her shoulder with crushing force.

But a moment passed and the tearing of flesh did not come. It was fingers rather than teeth that pulled her then, a fist wrapped tight in a ball of hair and leather as it hauled her upwards with a growl of exertion. She gave a shout as her feet left the ground and drew her up to the safety of a branch. As she scrambled to right herself, it was Thorin who looked back at her.

"Climb!" he ordered her, prying himself off his belly as he followed her.

She scaled the limbs as only someone motivated by fear could. Thorin had saved her just in time as the first of the wargs fell on the branches beneath them with a fury. Dwarves cried out all around as each of the trees they had retreated into were shaken by repeated attacks. Orla clung fast to the branch above her head as her feet sought to find balance on the limb below. Such balance proved elusive as the wargs snapped at her toes with hungry mouths. Thorin did not spare her another glance, having turned away from her to shout orders to the other stranded dwarves. He had saved her, repaying her in full for taking the arrow in Kili's stead. If it meant the death of her, Orla decided she would ask no more of the King Under the Mountain that night.

As she wobbled unsteadily in the shaking branches of the tree, she spent what precious few calm seconds she had between the wargs' battering attacks to look for Gandalf. The wizard, as she saw when she finally spotted him, had retreated high to the very top limbs the fir he was in. His lips were moving quickly and though Orla heard no sound, she knew that the Grey Wizard was doing everything in his considerable power to save them.

"Higher to the top!" Thorin barked suddenly. Orla dared not dawdle this time and she tightened her grip on the upper branch. With a grunt of strain she started to haul herself up, swinging her feet up to cross her ankles over the limb. It was an easier climb now, the limbs closer together so that she was able to use her legs rather than only her arms for aid.

She had only just righted herself once more when she heard someone call over the noise, "I'd heard wolves could climb but I never thought that's what was meant by it!"

It was Bofur who had spoken. At any other time, the comment might have sounded like a joke but given the background noise of howls and the strain in Bofur's voice, it was clear that the observation had been a serious one. The words had no sooner left the miner's mouth when the wargs below his tree set upon it with a fury. It did not take long for them to bring it down. Huge hulking bodies slammed against the bases of all nearly every tree that contained a dwarf. Before long, pines and hardwoods alike were brought down. It was a blessing of nature that the trees had all grown so close together. With each tree that fell, the dwarves that had rested within its branches leapt to catch the next tree's limbs.

Naturally, it was not long after that the tree Orla and Thorin had taken refuge in was suddenly uprooted with one final slam from a large warg against its base. Up and over the big tree toppled with the future king and the little shape-shifter caught within its branches. Cries went up all around as Thorin and Orla leapt for closest tree, the one that now held the rest of the company nearest the cliff's edge.

Like falling dominos, the tree fell atop the next. Thorin managed to catch hold of a solid branch, his considerable weight causing it to bend but not quite break, a fact for which he was grateful. Orla, however, was latched tight to the trunk of the new tree, clinging to it like a cat afraid of slipping into a tub. Eager to get something beneath her feet, she stretched out a tentative, searching foot to find the nearest branch. She had only just found one when an unseen arm snaked around her waist and did most of the work for her, pulling her over and righting her.

"I've got you."

She heard Kili before she saw him. His arm was gone as soon as he made certain she wouldn't go tumbling down again. Orla found herself grinning gratefully back at him. Despite their current situation, she feared the repulsion that she might find his eyes given the recent revelation. But the young dwarf allowed her fears to pass as quickly as they had come. The look that was there however, promised that he would have a mouthful to say to her later.

She had not long been in the tree, sequestered there with the thirteen dwarves, when she thought to look for the hobbit. Head snapping this way and that, she nearly missed Bilbo altogether until she saw the tips of his hairy toes jutting out from a limb several feet above her head. Reassured that he was safe, Orla began to climb up the distance between them.

"Blasted wargs!" Bilbo grumbled as Orla came to perch beside him. "They'll bring the tree down and we've nowhere left to go except over the edge."

Orla merely nodded her head grimly and fixed her eyes firmly on the hobbit to avoid looking at the cliff face below.

It was not long after that Gandalf managed to buy them some time, setting pinecones aflame with a whisper of magic. The little flaming missiles were pitched down as quickly as they could be lit. The animal in her did not take well to flame and instinctively Orla flinched each time a pinecone flew by her head. Feeling that she had to do something to help, she settled herself so that she straddled the limb and then reached to retrieve her bow and quiver from Bilbo, who had forgotten about the weapons altogether.

"Can you use that, miss?" Dori asked hopefully from nearby. At least that was one more dwarf who did not fear her.

Had she been more inclined to speak, Orla would have responded with a " _meh_ ," or possibly a " _not very well_." She was a hunter true enough but over the years she had learned to stalk prey silently, tracking them and putting them down the moment their movements stilled long enough to line up her shot. Her skill was self-taught and never before had she been forced to use a bow under in such a stressful situation.

Regardless, she shrugged the quiver over her shoulder and, doing her best to keep herself from tipping off the limb, she notched her first arrow. Her wound continued to bleed freely but the pain went mostly unnoticed as adrenaline washed over her, pumping away within her belly so as numb her. Surely, she would pay the price later but for now she would press on until she either bled to death or was eaten for supper.

She chose a warg that had managed to avoid the spreading flames and set her sights on the soft patch of fur behind the beast's chewed ear. Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself as best she could amidst the shaking branches, she finally released the arrow. The little elven barb found its new home in the thick neck of the warg. The shot did not bring him down but it did cause him to give a loud yelp before retreating to his masters…masters who had only just appeared from the shadowed tree line.

Countless orc faces slithered into view amidst the orange glow of flames, their green skin shining a mottled grey color in the firelight. A dwarf - possibly Gloin, Orla thought – called the others attention to the newest arrivals. Their combined dismay grew as a new creature appeared in the center of the howling mass of enemies. Orla did not know of this new orc, the one whose milk-white skin glowed like candle wax in the shadows, but she knew soon enough to fear him when she caught sight of the beast he sat astride. As a child she had heard stories of the White Wolf of Gundabad, chief of those evil wolves that lived in the shadow of the Misty Mountains. Never had she thought she would be unlucky enough to lay eyes on the beast and the thought made her very glad that she had not remained on the ground after all.

So busy was she in taking in the sight of the white warg that she did not hear Thorin's whispered denial as he saw the pale orc. However, she and everyone else did catch the orc's name as it crossed the prince's lips in the furious cry that followed.

"Azog!"

With a wave of his single remaining hand – where its companion had been lost, Orla did not know – the one called Azog ordered forth a new wave of wargs and all too soon what little hope Thorin and Company had seemed to die away with the flames as they burned to embers.

What happened next occurred entirely too quickly to be avoided. One moment Orla was drawing back her bow and the next the world was falling out from under her. The old fir had finally given way under the onslaught of wargs and with the snapping of roots and the moan of bark, it toppled backwards over the cliff's edge.

Cries of terror ripped forth from nearly every member of the company. Even Orla broke her usual silence. Indeed, she screamed particularly loudly, as she had never been terribly fond of high places. While she was left to dangle by a single arm, Bilbo had managed to wedge himself into the space between the branch and trunk. Orla's feet danced in mid-air, high above the valley below. Most of the dwarves fared no better…save for Thorin.

The King Under the Mountain stood, hauling himself to his feet with great effort. While Orla could not see his face, she knew the look that must be present there as Thorin took the first fearless step forward. There was not a single dwarf among those that remained in the tree that did not issue cries for the leader and king. Even Bilbo shouted as the dwarf prince charged forward, the metallic song of his sword being drawn ringing amongst all their ears.

As great a warrior as Thorin was, something had to be done and every person present knew it. Dwarves, human and hobbit alike scrabbled with their weak grips to pull themselves up but few were successful. Though she herself had lost sight of him, Orla heard the others as they screamed. She heard the awful slam of a body being beaten down and then the sudden quiet as Thorin's battle cry was no more.

Bilbo proved bravest of them all. Before Orla noticed, the hobbit had gotten his bearings and was maneuvering sure-footedly over branch and knot as he moved down the tree trunk. After Bilbo soon followed Thorin's nephews and dearest friends. Dwalin and Balin found their strength and pulled up Bofur and Bifur before charging into the fray.

The rest were left to dangle. Orla's grip was slipping, the strain becoming such that releasing her hold on the limb seemed preferable to retaining it. Beyond her view the hopeless battle raged. To her left, Dori and his brothers, along with Bombur, who was in the most miserable of straits of them all, did not cease their determined effort to partake.

It was Gandlaf who lost his hold first, or so Orla assumed. She saw him fall away from the tree, her mouth snapping open in a disbelieving but silent scream. Instead of her own voice, another cry rose up – one that was too shrill and sharp to be made by any of the Company.

Their rescue had come in the form of the Great Eagles. Never before had Orla been so happy to see one of the enormous birds. She had caught sight of them more than once as a child when they had circled her father's lands but she had never thought to interact with them herself. Gandalf, bless him, had summoned their aid.

They swooped and dived down from the clouds, their cries filling the air between each sword clash. Determined not to risk letting go just to hope that one of the eagles happened to spot her before she splatted flat as a pancake against the ground below, Orla redoubled her efforts to pull herself up. She thought for a moment that her arms would give out despite her wishes. Her muscles burned as if a fire had been lit within them and it felt as if the meat might rend itself right off the bone. Swallowing a cry of strain, she swung her legs up and managed to catch her heels against the solid wood of another limb that jutted out across from her. It took some maneuvering and quite a bit of squirming but she managed to inch her way right side up again.

Sparing no time to catch her breath, she reached for Dori only to find the white haired dwarf shaking his head. His arms had grown tired as well and before Orla could move to grab him, he had let go, his brothers and Bombur following soon after. They each landed safely on the backs of eagles before falling too many hundreds of feet. Even so, they went on screaming until they had disappeared into the clouds.

Her feet were wobbly beneath her as she made her way down the length of the trunk and when solid ground was finally beneath her feet, Orla gave a good long thought to kissing it. The ground was not quite so lucky, as her senses came back to her soon enough and she drew her bow off her shoulders. All around her dwarves clashed with orcs as eagles swooped down and tossed wargs over the mountainside. The least she could do was to fire a few arrows.

Though her arms protested, the draw on the elvish bow was light enough that she somehow managed it. Two goblins and a young warg fell to her arrows. Bifur almost joined the list as well but Orla quickly determined that was his own fault. The elvish arrow whizzed past the grizzled dwarf's head and he turned to roar at her in furious khuzdul. That was only seconds before the orc headed right for him had caught the very same arrow with his shoulder. Bifur's shouts were redirected and he finished the wounded orc off with glee.

Out of the thirty-some arrows that had been in her quiver, only six were left. Somehow she doubted that it had been any of those that she had fired that encouraged the wargs and their masters to begin a slow retreat. More than likely it had to do with the battle hungry dwarves who carved their way to a wounded and unmoving king and the eagles who were tossing the orcs that remained over the side of the mountain. Kili and Fili were the first other than Bilbo to reach their uncle's side and all three stood waving for one of the eagles to swoop down and carry Thorin away. One eagle obliged them but the limpness of Thorin's ragged body did nothing to inspire any confidence as he was lifted away from the ending battle.

"Orla!" Bilbo cried when he spotted her. He ran for her, his feet carrying him swiftly over the singed stone and grass. Orla did not give him one moments rest before she was pushing him toward the edge. The dwarves that had not been scooped up in the clutches of eagles were leaping over the edge one after another until only Orla and the hobbit remained. They jumped together and their combined cries ceased at the same moment when each came down on the feathery-soft back of one of the large birds.

With a great huff, Bilbo relaxed long enough to glance back over his shoulder. His fellow rider had her eyes shut tight however, and she did not seem to be under any great pressure to open them until they landed.

With a few beats of the eagle's wings, Bilbo's view of the mountainside was quickly fading from sight, obscured by distance and clouds. He was forced to go on faith that Gandalf, Thorin, and the others had made it away alive.

It seemed that they were safe again for the time being and Bilbo took a moment to ask, "Where are they taking us?"

Orla was silent for a long while and it was not until he turned again that he saw that her eyes had pried themselves open somewhat. Her voice was so quiet that the hobbit barely heard it among the flapping of wings.

"To Gwaihir's eyrie," she murmured, her voice soft against the back of his head.

"Where's that?"

This time Orla gave no answer. Had Bilbo been able to turn round a little further, perhaps he would have noticed the glazed look in her eyes. It was a look that wavered uncertainly on the precipice of dread and longing but fell into neither. Finally, after so long a silence that Bilbo had nearly forgotten the question, Orla spoke again.

"Near home," she whispered.

She said nothing further, falling back into her characteristic silence, and Bilbo knew better than to ask anything else. Better to focus on that rather than consider what lay ahead of them. There would be much to talk about when they landed.


	14. Great Friends Make Greater Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any quotes you may recognize are taken from Tolkien's The Hobbit chapter 7. The next few chapters will rely heavily on the book for guidance in an effort to portray Beorn and the eagles correctly. I certainly don't own any of the characters or the ideas. I simply get my kicks jigsawing them together for my own devices.

The flight to Gwaihir's eyrie may have potentially been an enjoyable one had it not been for several small reasons, which by themselves may have been put temporarily out of mind. Together, however, they combined forces with near headache-inducing strength. First and foremost, physical fatigue had begun to set in not long after being astride the eagles. More than twenty-four long hours spent on one's feet in a state of constant desperation had a peculiar tendency to cause the body some stress.

Secondly, the distant sight of Thorin Oakenshield's limp body, held within the clutches of an eagle, sent a wash of unease down each and every companion's backs. Orla in particular owed the future king her gratitude and seeing him wavering between life and death did nothing to abate her nerves. Finally, though Orla acknowledged this was the most selfish of all her reasons, a cold fist had clenched her gut tight in anticipation as she soared over the valley below. In ten long years she had not laid eyes on the Anduin and now its fertile river bottom and rolling hills stretched a mere mile beneath her.

_Perhaps_ , Orla wondered _, if it were daylight I might see the smoke from father's chimney_.

The thought brought on many a memory – some of cool mornings warmed within Beorn's hall and others dull with the ache of recalling the family she had been forced to leave behind. That thought in particular shook her and she jerked so suddenly that Bilbo was nearly roused from his sleep in front of her, having dosed off with his head resting peacefully back on her shoulder. She ignored the ping of familial longing that lodged steadfastly in her belly and instead looked out among the clouds to count the heads of the dwarves that rode nearby.

Fili, Kili, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Gloin, Oin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Balin, Dwalin, and finally Thorin…they were all accounted for and that pacified the young woman somewhat. She would not think of explaining anything to them regarding her own nature. Tending Thorin's many wounds and thanking the eagles would occupy them fully when they reached Gwaihir's home and hopefully there would be little time to address her own issues.

Looking ahead, Orla spotted the great eyrie in the distance. She sighed quietly at the sight of the huge rocks protruding up from the earth below like an ancient, knotty finger pointing the way to the heavens. Not far beyond it lay the edge of her homeland and she knew that her father's house would be tucked away in the expanse of trees and pastures between the eyrie and Mirkwood forest.

Softly, in an effort to distract herself, she stirred the hobbit.

"Are we near?" Bilbo murmured quietly, blinking away the sleep that had settled in his eyes.

Orla nodded but said nothing.

The eagles covered the remaining distance quickly and one by one the giant birds landed long enough to allow their stiff-legged passengers time to roll off. The Grey Wizard had arrived before them and as soon as the unconscious body of Thorin was placed still at his feet, Gandalf was bent over the dwarf to try and heal him. Others gathered all around, biting their lips and shaking their heads as they waited for the slightest sign. Bilbo stayed back, tucked beneath the safety of his watcher's arm. Neither the halfling nor the skin changer dared get too close, for Thorin's recovery seemed a private affair among the dwarves. Seconds went by and were soon hounded by minutes until dwarven heads had begun to fall in broken-hearted bows all around.

Orla looked away, her eyes tearing up the moment she made the mistake of looking at the youngest dwarf's desperate visage. Kili's mouth hung agape and his eyes had fallen into slits in stern refusal of his uncle's current state. The look touched her; she herself had worn one like it once not very far from where they stood now. It was the countenance one took on instinctively when faced with a hard truth and it had been carved on Orla's face for long days afterwards. Kili's, however, softened so immediately that Orla felt an urging to look back at Thorin once more.

The king had started to stir and the whooping elation that went up all around was enough to turn even the stoic head of Gwaihir himself. Thorin sat up with a grunt and, in his typical fashion, refused any offer of aid. He looked about, glaring with narrowed eyes through the curtain of black hair that had yet to be pushed from his face.

Most unfortunately, it was Bilbo who fell victim to the fierce look. As soon as Thorin had sighted the hobbit he was striding on remarkably steady feet towards him. Surprised but no so weary as to mistake such a look, Orla made to move in front of the halfling. She was cowed, however, by Thorin's harsh glare. As such, she stepped aside although one hand remained protectively atop Bilbo's shoulder.

"You," Thorin growled at the hobbit, who flinched within Orla's grasp, "What were you thinking?"

Bilbo, who was not expecting to face Thorin's ire so soon, blanched to a color that would rival the whitest of bed sheets. He swallowed and then looked to Orla and Gandalf, both of whom had leveled their own hard gazes upon the dwarf leader. It was only as Thorin came to stop in front of him that Bilbo squared his shoulders again.

"I told you, did I not, that you would be a burden."

Thorin's eyes were stormy as he spoke, glinting like onyx in the dark light. Quickly though, the anger in his eyes abated and only relief and approval remained. The dwarf prince reached out to clasp Bilbo to him, holding the hobbit close in an embrace like that which most of those present assumed him not to be capable of.

He ground out, "Never have I been so wrong."

Wide-eyed, Orla looked to Gandalf and found the old Maiar smiling proudly. His choice of burglars had been an excellent one after all. Thorin finally released the halfling from the hug but not it seemed from the camaraderie. He looked to Gandalf and said, "I thank you as well, Gandalf, for calling these eagles to our aid."

For once, Gandalf chose to remain silent, merely continuing on with his smile.

"And you, woman," it seemed that Orla would not escape recognition either, for Thorin turned next to her and spoke, "Truly, your people's reputation for bravery is not unfounded."

Gandalf chuckled to himself, no doubt surprised but equally pleased by Thorin's deduction. He said, "My friend is indeed made of tougher stock that she is given credit for."

Orla, however, was growing increasingly uncomfortable. She looked to Gwaihir, whose large honey colored eyes had trailed to her with her movement, following her as only a bird of prey could. Perhaps, though she would never know for certain, it was her own second nature allowed her to spot the sudden recognition in the eagle's eyes.

Gwaihir's amber feathers ruffled and he spoke for the first time, "The last I saw of you, young one, your head was hung low in shame. Tell me, why is it you brave your father's wrath to return now, Orla, daughter of Beorn, and for the likes of dwarves, no less."

Orla winced, well aware that it was one thing to be a Beorning, but to be the chieftain's disgraced daughter was an entirely different matter. Every pair of eyes turned to her, the gazes accompanied by a chorus of murmurs.

"Beorn? _The_ Beorn? Keeper of the Ford of Carrock?" Gloin asked loudly.

By now, Thorin's smile had faded and he stepped towards Orla. He said nothing for a long moment, seeming more contemplative than surprised. He told her quietly, "I have heard of Beorn. Strange things are said more often than not." He looked her over once and added, "Though I have heard nothing of a daughter."

Unperturbed by Orla's family dynamics, Dori cried, "Is it true your people can turn into animals? Bless me!" He was, no doubt, alarmed at the possibilities flitting through his mind.

Orla said nothing to acknowledge them, her eyes focused steadily on the Great Eagle. After a long moment to consider her answer, she spoke and many a dwarf gasped upon hearing her words.

"I am not here to beg entrance to my father's lands. If it is your will, Lord Gwaihir, I will remain in your home no longer, though I thank you for the kindness you have shown my friends."

Gwaihir appeared thoughtful, his smooth brown head tilting this way and that as birds are all prone to do. "This is for the best," he announced, "Ten years and your shame yet grows."

Orla looked away. "Aye," she whispered and was silent again.

She alone knew the true meaning of the eagle's words. She had never considered that the great Lord of the Eagles would have heard the local gossip, little though there was and with her own rotten doings topping the short list. She was long past any embarrassment on the matter, however, and the flushing of her cheeks came from sadness rather than shame. Ten long years had passed and the remnants of her banishment had only grown, being unlike the sort that dissipates after a few Sundays and with a price steeper than being uninvited for tea at the Sackville-Bagginses.

"Shame? What's the bird saying'?"

Someone asked the foolish question but they were quickly hushed by Gandalf, who, after ten years in Orla's acquaintance, knew better than to broach the subject.

Gwaihir, having no patience for nosiness, quickly moved business along. "Whatever your decision, young one, your friends may rest here until morning's light. At dawn, we will deliver them safely to the Carrock and you may be on your way."

"Yes," Gandalf agreed heartily with Orla as she nodded her head, "It would not do for us to go tumbling from your nest in the dark, my friend."

It was settled then. The exhausted dwarves and their companions rested under the watchful eyes of the eagles for what remained of the night. There was hardly peace for Orla, unfortunately, as most eyes never left her. She was content to shake and nod her head accordingly when asked pestering questions. A few of the dwarves such as Dwalin came around to her when the point was made that she had done them no harm beyond deceiving their eyes. Balin assured them that Beorn and his like were as noble as Men came, though not overly fond of dwarves in most cases. Bifur ,though, remained unconvinced.

It was a foolish notion for Orla to believe Thorin's interest in her would pass as quickly as the other's and she was curious to say the least when the dwarf came to join her at the edge of the eyrie. She had been resting, her feet dangling carelessly over the rock's edge. Thorin did not take a seat, instead, he remained standing, his hands folded in front of him and his gaze noticeably turned away from the skin-changer.

"I have heard," he began, "that Beorn is a difficult man to deal with."

The woman gave a brief snort as if to tell the dwarf he didn't know the half of it.

"I have also heard, that he holds no love for my people."

Lank curls whipped about as the woman shook her head. She glanced up and found that Thorin had finally looked to her. _No,_ her eyes flashed, _Beorn holds love for very few._

The responding hum of contemplation was not one worth acknowledging and Orla was content to let her gaze wonder once more out to the valley that stretched before her. She thought their conversation finished until she heard Thorin's tired groan as he settled down at her side.

"Your maps made no mention of stone giants, I noticed."

_Didn't they?_ Orla herself had never actually seen the stone giants in action.

"They did not."

She shrugged. _That's too bad._

"Tell me, how does a woman come to know such routes? Your people are not known to be wanderers."

At his words, Orla's face fell. She tore her eyes from the vista and cast them down to her lap. She stayed like that for a long moment before finally finding the nerve to answer the question posed to her.

_As I said, Beorn holds love for very few._

Thorin must have read the meaning behind her expression well enough, for he did not ask her any more questions that night. Instead, the woman watched as he called over his shoulder for Oin, who struggled up from his place near his brother and came over at his leader's command.

"Have a look at the woman's shoulder," Thorin instructed as the healer reached the pair. Orla made to argue, her eyes narrowing on the black-haired dwarf but she was silenced when he raised a diplomatic hand in demand of her cooperation. "That wound could have been my nephew's to bear. I would not see that debt unpaid when Oin here can assist you. Perhaps dwarven medicine will do what elven magic cannot."

Grumbling to herself, Orla begrudgingly shrugged out of her coat and jerkin so that the older dwarf was able to take a look at the wound. He poked and prodded her for a while, stuffing herbal balms here and there, before re-bandaging the injury. He tended her cheek as well, which had begun to turn an ugly shade of purple from where the goblin had gnawed.

"Tha' there may yet scar, I'm sorry t' say."

Orla cared little, hardly hearing the dwarf's words as her mind wandered.

"Ye heal quickly for a woman," the healer observed as he wrapped the bandage around Orla's shoulder, "Does tha' come from tha' odd lineage o' yers?"

To be perfectly honest, Orla had never heard of her people healing any faster than other members of their race; a fairer and perhaps less dwarven mind would have chalked up the expedited healing process to Lord Elrond's work. Saying such a thing to Oin within earshot of Thorin would be unwise, however, so the skin-changer only shrugged.

"Well, yer sure to heal up nicely now tha' old Oin's done with ya, providin' there's no more stress on it for a time."

He was kind enough to help the woman back into her jerkin and coat before bidding both her and Thorin goodnight. The future king must have assumed his debt was repaid upon the healer's departure, as he stood and nodded a silent word of parting to Orla before returning to the far side of the eyrie. It was just as well, Orla figured, for her nerves would calm much faster if she did not have Thorin breathing down her neck. She was pleased to be granted a few hours to herself before morning came and brought with it the drama of a new day.

It was only when Kili approached her sometime near dawn that Orla felt any desire to explain herself, or more precisely, her abilities. The others had long since fallen asleep and in a rare moment of privacy, the dwarf crouched carefully beside her, wobbling tiredly on the balls of his feet. He looked at her for a long while, his silence unusual enough to cause Orla some amount of worry. Of all the dwarves, she had come to know Kili best. Perhaps she might venture to say she was fondest of him, second only to the little hobbit that was sleeping a few feet away.

Kili's normally expressive eyes were nearly unreadable but in the little she could make out, Orla at least saw no revulsion. She took a moment to study him as well, marking with her eyes the sharp slope of his nose and the heavy set of his brows. Her opinion of his rather pleasing aesthetics had not changed since the night she had guarded him on the plains.

Finally, Kili outstretched a hand and, with the dexterity of an archer, he plucked at the collar of Orla's leather coat. She knew that he recognized it and he soon said as much.

"So it _was_ you who covered me with this that night near the Bruinen, didn't you?"

_Yes,_ Orla's admission shown clearly, _I did._ She shrugged and left her reasoning at that. _You were cold._

"I thought as much. I might've kept after you about it back in Rivendell but," he grinned more wolfishly than even Orla herself could manage, "I can't say I was lookin' at the coat."

She flushed and swatted his hand from her neck. Kili was undeterred and he sat back with a tired sigh. Despite his exhaustion he gave a quiet chuckle, paying the look of annoyance she gave him no heed at all.

"Well now, I've seen that look before," he told her with a grin.

_You're bound to see it again,_ she warned him in a flash of grey. Had she not been one to depend almost solely on her expressions she might not have been able to hide the grin of timid enjoyment that threatened to peek from the corners of her mouth.

"Ho now! Don't be like that." Kili persisted. When he received no response, he quieted.

They sat together for a long while like that, companionable silence stretching out between them. Orla gave a long hard thought to breaking her characteristic quiet but did no such thing. She shuffled her feet instead, toeing a little pebble beneath her boot. Kili watched her and wondered all the while how such a quiet young woman could turn into such a fierce creature when the need arose. He marveled at what the feeling must be like to experience such a thing and wondered still what kept the woman in such silence. His curiosity got the better of him, leading his mind to places it would have been better off not going. He wanted to know if she felt heat and cold in the same way a person would or even pain for that matter. That last part stopped him cold. He recalled the orc's arrow out on the plains, the one bound for him. He remembered the first time he had ever laid eyes on Orla and the way her shoulder had been bandaged. Earlier, when Oin had been seeing to her, he had tried his best to ignore the scene altogether. Truly, she had borne the wound gracefully, though he had known even then that it caused her no small amount of pain.

"Tell me," he said, more softly than he'd spoken before, "Why'd you do it?"

Orla quirked an eyebrow. She need not have because she knew good and well to what he referred. With a long suffering sigh, she let her shoulder rise and fall. She wished desperately that the dwarves would just let her be.

Kili paled, the color fading from beneath the scruff of his cheeks. It had not occurred to him until now that the wound she had been sporting in Rivendell had been the one she had incurred on his part. "I'll repay you for it one day," he told her determinedly, "I promise."

_It's not needed, dwarf_.

Her eyes softened somewhat when she looked at him and in an effort to cheer him, she nudged his much larger foot with her own, passing the pebble she had been playing with off for his enjoyment. He smiled and instead of kicking the smooth little rock around as she had, he reached down the length of his legs to pluck the stone up, pocketing it.

She shook her head to fight back the smallest of smiles and as a result a mess of dirty hair fell into her face. The dwarf at her side noticed that it was the same pale gold color as the wolf's fur and he suddenly found himself wondering if it would be as soft under hand as the creature's pelt. Orla gave him no opportunity to find out, instead flashing him a look as she stood up.

In the brightness of those grey eyes and the happy quirk of her brow, Kili read a simple question. _Friends?_

"Oh, aye," he answered her, looking up charmingly at her despite the distance between them. Before she could turn to go, heading off to what was likely to be the opposite end of the eyrie from him, Kili caught her eye and tossed her a quick, well-versed wink, adding with a smile, "For now."

.

* * *

.

As promised, the eagles woke them at dawn. The few hours rest had done everyone a world of good and they awoke with higher spirits than they'd had for some time. After a breakfast spent finishing off what was left of the cold mutton and rabbit they'd stored away, each one of the group climbed atop the back of an eagle. Off they went, leaving the eyrie behind with nothing other than cries of promised favors for the Lord of the Eagles should they ever meet him again.

Once again, Orla rode with Bilbo, which was a lucky thing for the eagle they sat astride, as Bilbo had gripped tight onto the bird's feathers. Orla placed a hand on his to calm him and urge him to loosen his hold, directing his wide, staring eyes away from their focus on the ground far below. Bilbo twisted round to look back at her and she gave him a look that told him not to be frightened, followed by a sympathetic glance at the eagle whose feathers Bilbo was determined to rip out.

It was not a long ride to the Carrock, a landmark which Orla new well. The step-like rocks of the eyot jutted out from the earth, a stone guardian to the Anduin River that flowed around it. With a single exception, Orla had only fond memories of the Carrock. She had been but a child, not much younger than Estel, when her father had allowed her to venture out to the formation for the first time. He had accompanied her, his large, rough hand in her much smaller one as he had led her to the Anduin's edge. With the bat of her lashes she had persuaded him to let her swim across the short distance to the Carrock. Though she had made it, her little arms paddling the whole way, she had been too tired to swim back and Beorn had laughingly retrieved her from the other side, carrying her back atop his shoulders.

She had marveled then at how the water had only come up to her father's hips and how impossibly tall and strong he seemed amidst the streaming water. Nothing could have come between the two Beornings in that moment. But time changed that, as it changes all things, and at seventeen she had crossed that same water for the last time. She had thought about going under, letting the cool life blood of the valley wash over her, never to come up again. Unwilling to part with life, however, she had forded her way to the Carrock and had spent her final night in the valley alone, huddled and sobbing beneath the stony steps.

Never had Orla thought to see the little island again. She had not wanted to. But now, as the eagles circled down around the river looking for a place to land, her heart and hands clenched in anticipation. Her feet itched to touch the fertile soil once more. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to submerge herself in the cool water and bathe there as she had in her childhood. Nearby the dwarves seemed just as excited as she, their hands clapping together happily at the promise of fresh water to drink and a place to wash away the grime of travel.

Soon the eagles were landing, their powerful wings stirring up grass and dirt as the resulting wind bore down on the ground with every beat. In short moments the dwarves had dismounted, along with Gandalf and the others.

Gwaihir circled above, his feathers glinting gold in the early morning sun. With a loud cry he called his companions to him and soon enough not a single eagle remained on the ground.

"Farewell!" they all cried in chorus, "wherever you fare, till your eyries receive you at the journey's end!"

Only Gandalf and Orla knew the proper response and the former was content to let the wizard answer in her stead. She inclined her head respectfully just as Gandalf called back, "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks!" *

And like that, the eagles were gone.

Bilbo looked to Orla, clearly unused to such formality with birds. She simply shrugged as if to say that the exchanges had been the polite and customary way of speaking to the creatures. The hobbit let it go at that and busied himself with looking about at the scenery around him.

"Orla," Gandalf spoke to her suddenly and she turned away from the hobbit to listen. "Dear girl, humor an old man for a moment and come with me." As asked, she followed the wizard until they were out of hearing, if not quite out of sight, from the dwarves.

"You're doing remarkably well for someone who did not plan on coming as far as you have," the wizard said as they walked together.

Orla's lips pulled back in a smile that was not quite as genuine as she hoped it would seem. The wizard was not fooled, as she should have expected. He frowned, a look which appeared more severe than it was meant to due the bushy beard and brows that seemed to pull his down-turned lips even lower.

Annoyed, he started, "Well, off to Forochel with you if –"

The Maiar was silenced when a dainty hand waved itself dismissively in his face. Orla was looking quite cross with him and folded her arms stubbornly over her chest. The determined glint in her eye told him that she felt her own plans had been circumvented long enough so she might as well just go about changing them altogether.

_I've made it this far and neither you nor any dwarf is stopping me._ She glared at him sharply before tossing her head in the direction of the dwarves. _My father will not approve, however. He may stop all of us if that lot is not careful._

"My girl, I doubt Beorn will approve of anything about this company. Do you plan to accompany them?"

The young woman scoffed loudly and shook her head. _I am no fool. I will take you as far as his pastures._ She pointed in the general direction of the promised destination.

"Then I will ask no more of you until Mirkwood."

It was settled. Forochel was forgotten in Orla's mind and she set her sights on Esgaroth, a place to which she had never been. Erebor, however, was still very much out of the question but she supposed that she might make the effort to see the dwarves safely through her father's lands and the dark forest that lay in wait for them.

She knew that Gandalf had more to say but it seemed that he deemed it fit to address everyone rather than just her so she returned with him to the riverside, where he urged the others to gather round. All thirteen of the dwarves shuffled forward, most of them barefooted, having shed their heavy boots long enough to stick their feet in the blessed wet of the river.

Thorin met the wizard's eyes from his perch atop a large rock. He stood without further ado, his own look skeptical upon realizing unpleasant news was soon to be delivered.

"Gandalf?" the dwarf prince asked.

"From the beginning I meant to see you all to this point and, despite a few inconveniences along the way, I have done so." Gandalf stated this fact proudly and gave a self-impressed sniff, the sort reserved for only the wisest and most pleased of people. "However, this is not my adventure after all. Myself and others," he glanced sideways at Orla before continuing, "have come further than we ever meant to with you. Of the two of us, I must soon say goodbye to you. Though I hope I shall say hello again before the very end."

If he had cursed them all then and there they could not have looked any more depressed with this development. Many of them had forgotten altogether that the wizard had never promised to come all the way with them and they were paying for that oversight now. Bilbo especially was looking distressed.

Gandalf continued on, "Mind you, I will not depart immediately. We have a few days to go yet and I will at least see you to the edge of the forest. My dear, two-natured friend here will guide you from there."

His wrinkled hand came down on Orla's shoulder at the same time her eyebrows made it to her hairline in surprise. This was news to her. _Accompany_ and _guide_ were two very different concepts, after all, and she much preferred to follow rather than lead.

Undeterred by her silent but not unnoticed reaction, Gandalf told the others, "I believe the next few days shall be easier going those previous, thank goodness. We may even find dinner before it is all over with, for there is someone that I know of, who lives not too far away. If Orla would be so kind as to point us in the right direction, we may perhaps find him by morning."

The woman in question sighed woefully and cast her eyes down to her feet. _Or perhaps, given our rotten luck, he may find us instead._ She said nothing of course and instead began to drag her feet along the muddy bank of the river.


	15. The Bear-Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again any dialogue you recognize is from Tolkien's The Hobbit. I've tweaked canon a bit in this chapter though it shouldn't irk those of you who haven't read the book. Keep in mind that my interpretation of Beorn is very much that of Tolkien's version, rather than Peter Jackson's. It has always been my understanding that the Beornings ARE human first and foremost. There is also supposed to be a small community of them instead of just Beorn (I believe PJ portrayed him as the last survivor of his kind, which is not the case in the book.)

The journey to Beorn's bee pastures was a short one despite what the overabundance of grumbling from the dwarves would have one believe. Unsurprisingly, they were still upset with Gandalf's approaching departure. Miles of walking later, having passed many a marker she recognized, Orla slowed her pace and fell back to Gandalf's side. She looked up at him, her grey eyes brighter than the wizard could remember seeing them. It was clear that she was at home here next to the Anduin but her nervousness had lit a fire within her that had yet to be extinguished no matter how many words of confidence were said to her.

"We are near then?" he asked softly.

Orla nodded before stopping completely, a gentle hand going up to catch the crook of the wizard's elbow to halt him as well.

His countenance was one of understanding as he studied her. She was unusually antsy, her eyes flicking nervously to the tree line and then back to the wizard. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. It seemed almost to be an odd sort of dance. A twitch here and slight shimmy there but the only music to which she moved was the nearby trickle of the meandering river.

Like a grandfather, the wizard patted her shoulder gently. He asked of her, "You will come no further, my dear?"

_No,_ Orla looked about once again, her brow creasing, _and you best wait 'til lunch at least._

She looked to the sun in an attempt to guess the time and then back at Gandalf. Having understood the advising glance, the wizard concurred. It was then that the pair noticed a rustling in the trees nearby. Leaves parted and a pretty duo of cardinals darted out, singing their songs to an audience that understood not a single word. Orla sighed and watched the two birds flutter off across the field. Beorn would know of the dwarves' arrival soon enough she wagered and she gave the wizard a look that told him as much.

_Rest. Clean yourselves,_ she advised, pointing to the river. _Make them presentable?_ It was a simple request, one asked only with the slight lift of her brow.

"Oh, I shall endeavor to do so. Off you go, dear girl!"

Gandalf bid her goodbye, accepting her weapons when she handed them to him, and hobbled off to direct the dwarves to bathe quickly and to tidy up their appearances as best they could. Orla, not one to linger when undressing dwarves were present, turned to go. In the blink of an eye the fair haired human was gone and a wolf trotted off in her place, bound for the safety only distance could put between her and the Bear Man.

Had the wolf cared to look back, she would have seen two pairs of eyes following her. The hobbit watched her for a long moment before he was distracted by a presence that had appeared at his side. Kili's hand came down atop his shoulder but when Bilbo turned to look up at him, the young dwarf had not yet turned his gaze from the wolf.

Shaking away the frown that threatened to sneak it way onto his features, Kili cast his eyes down to the ground and busied himself with removing his boots.

Tossing one shoe away, he said to Bilbo, "What do you suppose has her on the run, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo wobbled, as Kili's heavy hand had not yet removed itself from his shoulder and was pressing down rather hard as the dwarf tried to balance on a single foot. He was still tugging off the remaining boot when Bilbo replied, "I'm afraid I don't know. Then again, it's not my business so I haven't asked her."

"Oh ho! You hobbits and your social graces," Kili only shook his head, finally relieved of his footwear. "I'm merely curious! Blame his great, feathered majesty, that bird. What 'shame' do you think he meant? Did she kill someone, you suppose?" He winked at the hobbit conspiratorially.

Bilbo groaned and tugged miserably at the curls atop his head. "Let it be won't you? Please?"

Kili shrugged but whether the movement was meant as a reply or simply to relieve himself of his coat, Bilbo was not sure. Either way, the dwarf said nothing else though Bilbo noticed that every now and again his eyes would turn back toward the place where the wolf had disappeared.

.

* * *

.

Two by two the dwarves set out from the bee pastures. Gandalf had taken a great deal of time to warn them all after they had bathed that they should each do their best not to offend the man they were about to meet. They all listened with rapt attention to his warnings, each pondering why Beorn should be so fierce when his daughter was as quiet and tranquil as a calm wind. Gandalf did not mention to them the fact that there was a world of difference between father and daughter. He did, however, warn them that under _no_ circumstance were any of them to make one utterance about having met Orla at all, much less mention the fact that she had led them this far. That, followed by some advice to not speak of hunting or eating any animals summed up all that Gandalf could tell them about Beorn.

"Do not be fools if you can help it," the wizard explained, "He is a beast when he is angry and he is made so easily. If you do not provoke him, I suspect he will be kind enough to us."

Many a dwarf grumbled but they did as they were told. Gandalf and Bilbo went ahead. In pairs they were to follow every few minutes until they all found themselves within the comfort of Beorn's home. It was with great reluctance that Bilbo was the first of the group to go. He stayed so near Gandalf that he would occasionally step on the hem of the wizard's robes, only to trip and totter before righting himself once more.

"Careful! Careful!" Gandalf snapped, for now they had come in sight of Beorn's home and there was no time for clumsiness. Bilbo shrunk back. It took quite a bit of mustering to get his courage up enough that he was able to look at the sight before him, afraid that he might do so only to see a great grizzly bear growling back at him. There was no such creature waiting for him though.

Instead, his eyes were met with a surprisingly pleasant sight. Beorn's Hall was as large as any human dwelling Bilbo had ever seen and built from wide oak planks. A pleasant weathered brown, it spanned two long wings and stretched across a pasture-like yard. Horses and cows and chickens dotted the courtyard, which was quartered off by a simple wooden fence.

A few of the horses approached just as Gandalf and Bilbo reached the main gate. They pawed at the ground, dancing about as the strangers pushed open the little gate and stepped into the yard.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" Bilbo asked, reaching out to touch a finger to the velvety nose of one mare.

"Indeed. Beorn and his folk take only the best of care of their animals. He would see them treated no other way," Gandalf answered.

The horses did not linger near the hobbit and wizard for very long. They each snorted and looked at one another, ears flicking back and forth and hooves knocking against the ground. Soon enough the beasts turned tail and hurried away down the long walkway to the front porch of the hall.

"They've gone to tell him we've arrived," Gandalf whispered. Bilbo's head twitched up in surprise.

"He can speak to them?" the hobbit queried in disbelief.

Gandalf chuckled and nodded his head once. "Oh, yes."

They did not make it much further before the front door of the hall opened and out stepped the largest man Bilbo had ever seen. Beorn was near seven feet tall – Bilbo could have stood on his own shoulders two and a half times over before he was of equal height. He was burly and muscular as any proper bear-man should be and had a head full of thick black hair with an equally black beard that was bushy enough to be the envy of many a dwarf. Bilbo's steps faltered as he took in the sight of Orla's father. He had to wonder how such a delicate woman like her could come from anyone as burly and dark as the man that now stood just a few yards ahead.

_What a horrible thing for her to endure_ , Bilbo thought with pity, _the wrath of such a violent looking man_!

The horses that had run off earlier now stood near Beorn, nosing his shoulders until he waved them away.

"Here they are," his voice boomed so that the nags flinched, "And they don't look so dangerous to me. Off with you now!"

Obediently, the horses departed from his side and Bilbo and Gandalf were left at Beorn's full attention. The Bear-Man stepped from the porch and strode over to meet Gandalf. He was nearly eye level with the tip of Gandalf's pointy hat and for once it was the wizard who had to tilt his head up to see the eyes of whom he was speaking to.

Glaring, Beorn grumbled, "Who are you? What is it you want?"

"I am Gandalf," the wizard replied with all the politeness in the world.

Dark brows jerked together as Beorn narrowed his eyes. "Never heard that name before." He glanced down at Bilbo and then asked, "And that little fellow? Who is he?"

"This is Mister Baggins of the Shire, a hobbit of a respectable family and unimpeachable reputation," Gandalf explained. Bilbo was not sure if he should shake hands or perhaps bow but he finally settled on bowing, as he was much too afraid that shaking hands with Beorn might break his fingers.

Beorn said nothing for a while longer. Finally, he folded his great big arms over his chest and told them, "You've told me who you are but you've yet to answer my other question."

Gandalf nodded accordingly, replying, "We are travelers come from the west but we had a rather unfortunate time with the goblins in the mountains."

At the mention of the foul creatures Beorn's eyes widened in interest. "What did you go near them for?"

"An accident of the worst sorts," Gandalf said, "Now, we're very lost and almost as hunger. Alas, it is a long story."

Beorn thought for a moment, sending a large hand to scratch his head before he finally said, "Well, you better come inside then and tell it to me."

They followed him past the porch and into the main wing of the house. It was as spacious on the inside as it had appeared from the yard. In the center of the hall was a rectangular fire place, nearly fifteen feet in length and with long dining tables on either side. A wood fire was burning despite the summer heat, its flames sending bellows of smoke up and out through openings in the roof. Down the length of the hall were evenly spaced pillars made from tall tree trunks that stretched from the floor all the way up to the roof. Nothing in the house was hobbit-sized and Bilbo felt much too small for his own liking.

Beorn directed them to set at a smaller table in one corner of the room. He sat across from them and said not a word as Gandalf began his tale.

"I was coming over the mountains with a friend or two –"

"Or two?" Beorn frowned, "I only see one. A very small one."

"Well, I did not like to bother you with the rest of us. I will call the others if you'd like."

"Go on!" Beorn clapped his hands together and waved for the wizard to hurry along.

Gandalf excused himself before going to the door long enough to give a shrill whistle. As expected, Thorin and Dori came along shortly thereafter.

"These are not hobbits, they're dwarves!" Beorn took the time to look over Thorin and Dori carefully. Thorin did not waver beneath the larger man's gaze and met it with his own. He stepped forward and said, "Thorin Oakenshield, at your service."

"Bah!" Beorn grunted. "I don't need any services from you, though I'd wager you need mine. Still, I'm not fond of dwarves, but I have heard of your father and grandfather. You are _that_ Thorin, yes?"

"Son of Thrain, son of Thror," Thorin confirmed.

"And are you, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, here to make mischief in my lands?"

"We are on our way to Erebor, beyond Mirkwood. My dwarves mean you and your animals no harm." Thorin grit his teeth so loudly that Bilbo was sure he'd heard it. The future King Under the Mountain seemed about as fond of explaining himself to Beorn as he was of explaining things to elves.

" _Your_ dwarves?" Beorn looked crossways as Gandalf. "And how many dwarves would that be?"

Thorin exchanged a glance with Gandalf, who was looking none too pleased with the dwarf's handling of the situation.

"Eleven," Thorin eventually admitted.

"Well, I'd say eleven was more than one or two. Call them in why don't you? I'll not have your kind stomping around my flower bushes."

Once more Gandalf went to the door and whistled again. Two by two the dwarves came until they all had filed into the hall.

"A troop!" Beorn roared, though not entirely out of anger. "A regular old troop of dwarves! Well, well, you best all have a seat before track in any more mud than you already have. Sit, I said! Go on!"

With no small amount of hurry and commotion the dwarves all found seats around the fire pit in the center of the room. Gandalf and Bilbo left their table in the corner to join the others. Gandalf sat nearest Beorn while Bilbo was left to scramble on a chair next to Fili.

"A big fellow, isn't he?" Fili whispered as Gandalf regaled Beorn with the tale of how they had all come to be in this position.

Bilbo nodded but said nothing.

Kili leaned around his brother to get a better look at the Bear-Man. After a while he just shook his head and sat back. "I don't believe it," he muttered.

"What?" Fili breathed quietly.

"Not much family resemblance is there?"

Bilbo choked upon hearing that and twisted on his chair to glare sharply at the youngest dwarves. His normally wide eyes were narrowed in warning as he hissed, " _Shh_!"

"Just sayin'!"

The story went on for a while and every now and then Gandalf would say something that would earn him a bout of boisterous laughter from Beorn, who for the most part seemed to have forgotten his annoyance with the company. When the story was over, concluding with their meeting the eagles, Beorn was satisfied enough to offer them food and shelter for a night or two.

He stood and stretched to his full height before clapping his hands together loudly – as Bilbo and the others had realized he was prone to do – and then he gave them the best news they had heard for a while.

"A good tale! Regardless if it's true, you deserve supper at least. Let us eat!"

Looking over his shoulder, Beorn called out for someone. It was a surprise since none of the others had realized anyone else was in the house.

"Grim!" he shouted once and then again.

Moments later, a boy appeared. No sooner had the lad come into view than a bout of coughing and sputtering came up from one end of the table. Gandalf, who had pulled out his pipe and ol' Toby, was now choking after a particularly nasty intake of smoke. He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes a few times before settling his gaze on the boy once more.

"Grimbeorn," the Bear-Man said to the boy, "gather up some bread and honey for our guests."

"Aye, papa," said the child.

Though dwarf and hobbit eyes were not always the best at guessing the ages of Men, the boy did not seem to be much older than Estel from Rivendell. Though not as lanky as Estel had been, Grimbeorn was nearly as tall and a bit wider through the shoulders. Curly locks of chestnut hair fell about the boy's face, hiding his eyes. He was gone before anyone took much notice of him, returning a few minutes later with a tray full of warm bread and clay pots filled with as pretty honey as any of them had ever seen.

Grimbeorn brought round the bread tray while Beorn poured fifteen cups full of drink for his guests. Bilbo could hardly contain his excitement as a small hand reached over his shoulder to place a loaf of bread on the plate in front of him.

"Thank y –" The words caught in his throat as he looked up to thank the lad. Grey eyes looked back at him. An unexpectedly soft, button-shaped nose crinkled in amusement as a too-wide mouth stretched over a child's gapped teeth.

"Something the matter?" Grimbeorn asked as he met the hobbit's perplexed stare.

"Good heavens," Bilbo squeaked before whipping back around in his chair to busy himself with tearing off a chunk of his bread.

"What's got you in tizzy?" Fili asked from beside him. The fair haired dwarf had not bothered to look up at the boy.

Bilbo jerked his head not too inconspicuously at the child. Fili's face was blank as that of someone who had missed the punchline of a joke.

"A brother," the hobbit whispered as quietly as he could, "she has a brother!"

Fili made a face and shrugged with disinterest. "The boy's too young to be her brother. She would have been near twenty when he was –" His head snapped up suddenly. "By Mahal!" Wide-eyed he looked at the hobbit and then quickly turned to look back at the boy who had since made it to the far side of the table.

"Bilbo," Fili murmured, "How old do y' spose the lad is?"

"I'd guess about ten summers."

"And how long has the girl been gone from this place?"

The hobbit said nothing.

"Here now," Kili piped up before popping a slice of honey-covered bread in his mouth. He leaned nearer to his brother and the hobbit as he chewed. "What' er you whisperin' about?"

They both looked at him as guiltily as any good conspirators should.

"Nothing," Fili muttered to his brother and turned his attention back to his bread. Bilbo did the same, albeit less convincingly. Though he said nothing else, he could not help but glancing back at Grimbeorn every so often. The child did not move with Orla's easy grace but nor did he lumber about like the giant Beorn. Whatever thoughts Bilbo was thinking, he pushed them from his mind with all the gentleness of a bull.

Dinner came and went and was followed soon by rest. Beorn allowed them to lay their pallets down around the hearth for the night. Sleep did not immediately overtake them and they busied themselves instead with singing songs around the fire. Gandalf did not join them that night, sitting by himself on the porch as he smoked his pipe. The wizard had not said much since dinner but then neither had Bilbo or Fili. The Bear-Man had all but disappeared from the hall after supper. It was late when they all lay down for the night and later still when they were jolted awake by the sound of the heavy front door slamming shut.

"What was that?" someone mumbled through the darkness.

"Beorn," Bilbo whispered in response, "He's gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, Tolkien-verse canon has been tweaked a little as Grimbeorn doesn't actually appear in the Hobbit. "Fathers and Daughters, Bears and Wolves" should explain any lingering questions. It's on my profile.
> 
> But let me make this very clear – there is no incest or sexual abuse taking place in this story. I will warn you of triggers ahead of time but those two things at least will not be among them.


	16. Traitor-Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hints of Possible Triggers - Be wary if you're sensitive to teenage pregnancy or estranged/volatile parent-child relationships. I do not view Beorn as abusive outright but be aware that his temper is made very clear in the book and I took that into consideration while writing his relationship with his daughter. Please note that the sister piece to this chapter (link on my profile) is much more vivid in regards to any triggers.

Upon hearing the first of the footsteps, Orla thought herself to be imagining things. She sat up from the pebbled rock of the Carrock where she had made her bed. She closed her eyes, head askew, and listened. Beyond the trickle of water, past the rustle of grass in the breeze, there came a familiar song. It was one that had gone unheard for a long while. The approaching gait was familiar to her - she had learned from an early age to heed its approach and cease immediately whatever trouble she might have been up to. It was the rhythm of one heavy step followed by the silence of an immense stride and then another crunch of ground underneath.

The Bear-Man approached and whether it was for good or ill, Orla did not know. She thought to bolt, to scramble to her feet and away from the Carrock as if she were some frightened bird instead of a wolf. Her breath caught in her chest, hitching beneath her breastbone until it pained her. Fingers, already grubby from a night spent on the ground, pressed without her bidding into the hard earth, scoring it, marking her presence. The footfalls continued like drumbeats, constant in their rhythm as if approaching the crescendo that would bring them ultimately to a halt in front of her. Her head reeled, her insides tightened and tingled, and she thought all at once she might retch there against the ground.

A stronger person might have steeled themselves, perhaps have taken a steadying breath. But no one knew Beorn's wrath like she did. There was no protection against it – there had been none ten years earlier and there would be none now. And so she quivered there on the ground like a fawn, frightened and frozen at the imminent approach of a predator.

He appeared from the darkness soon after. Not a bear but a man – huge and hulking, black hair wild and long, countenance as hard as she remembered it. He watched her for a while, standing across the water from her.

Orla could not have found the voice to call out to him even if she had wanted to. She was too struck by his actual presence to contemplate even the basic formation of syllables. Ten years and he had not changed. He had hardly aged a day, though given the rough lines that had weathered his face even in Orla's youth, that was not the most profound surprise. Perhaps if she had been closer, she might have spied the fine grey that streaked the knotted mass of his hair. Had she been brave enough to look, she might too have noticed the positioning of that grey-tinged black hair as it curved messily around his neck to hide a scar that had not faded with the passage of years.

As Beorn's mouth finally opened to speak, Orla knew that it was too much to hope for him to utter her name, certainly not an endearment such as "daughter."

She was correct. After a decade, the first word she heard her father was a plainly voiced, "Why?"

_Why_ had she returned? _Why_ did she travel in the company of dwarves and wizards and hobbits? Or perhaps it was a question as to why she had betrayed him all those years ago. Orla had an answer to each. She put her voice to none of them. Instead, she stood on legs made of paper. A thousand conversations played through her mind and twice as many questions. She wanted to know if Thorin and Co. was safe, if maybe Beorn came to her with the intent to kill her, if he would allow her back…

Most importantly, she wished to know if her son – the boy who had been ripped from her arms all those years ago - was healthy and happy. She wanted to ask the boy's name, the color of his hair, if he was blessed with the Beorning's gift or if his father's ranger blood had negated it in some way. How tall was he? Was he jolly and easy to smile like his mother? Or had years with Beorn instilled an unpredictability in him that could be swayed to laughter or fury on a moment's notice?

"Come across the water so that we might speak, girl." Beorn did not quite bark the order at her but his voice held a sharpness to it that made her flinch.

Flinch, yes, but not obey.

"My own spawn a coward? _Bah_!"

A gigantic hand was waved at her, a sign that what little cordiality he was showing her would end very soon.

"Come here, girl. It is better for you if I do not have to force you. What would those dwarves you delivered to my doorstep think if I carried you back over my shoulder?"

_Carried her back? Back to the Hall?_ Orla dared not let herself misinterpret his words. He was trying to threaten her, no more, no less. His words did not hint at an invitation. Still, Orla took a tentative step forward. Beorn the Bear-Man did not make empty threats nor did he raise a child foolish enough to think he did.

Seeing her hesitation and being annoyed by it, he barked, "Across the water with you, girl!"

She crossed the water, leaving the flimsy safety of the Carrock behind. Ten feet – that's as close as she dared get to her father. Beorn made no move to approach her. There was to be no affectionate hugs or blubbering, tearful apologies. Their people were not like hobbits or elves and were more akin to dwarves when it came to their stubbornness and ability to hold grudges. Then again, Beorn felt that he had every reason to hold a grudge. He shifted on those big feet of his and Orla thought she might have felt the ground shift beneath her.

Her father stared across the distance at her like a general during inspection. Every bruise, every scrape and scratch Orla had endured over the past days was noted. Beorn might not reach out and comfort his daughter but the flash of disturbance within his eyes hinted that he was not pleased with Orla's current state. She tried not to notice, certain that their meeting would be less painful if she convinced herself he lacked any real concern. It was futile, of course. She was not blind to the worry that drew Beorn's brows together and pushed his lips into a severe frown. It seemed that no matter the bad blood between father and daughter, the man was regardless unsettled to see his own flesh and blood so picked over.

His voice rough, Beorn grumbled, "Those short-legs said something about goblins. Sent you away lapping your wounds, then?"

She scowled, a bitter expression that tugged at her eyes and mouth in foreign ways. Regardless, her silence remained unbroken.

" _Hmph_." Beorn's massive arms folded over his chest. "Well?"

It was not her intent to mimic him but Orla found herself doing so anyway. Her own arms, much smaller in mass, crossed with a stubbornness that had clearly been inherited from the man across from her. It was neither the wisest nor most respectful thing she could have done and yet she found herself plunged suddenly into a mood she could not prevent. He had asked her several questions but had taken no action against her, had not so much as raised his voice in anger at her arrival. It was a stark difference from the rage she had witnessed at seventeen – the ferocity with which he had cast her from his house. She could still feel the bruising power of his hands as they had gripped and dragged her across the threshold of his Hall. She recalled the words he had spat at her as he banished her, could still hear the slamming of the heavy door as it closed, cutting her off from her newborn, never to reopen to her.

Most strongly of all, she remembered the acrid tang of the blood she had drawn from him. The wolf's bite – his own child's bite - had been enough to scar the great man. It was sheer luck that she had not killed him that day, that the wolf's jaws had closed around his shoulder rather than his neck. Rabid, feral, her indignancy and fury had risen so to rival Beorn's own. Mad with the pain of childbirth and the unfathomable emptiness that came with having her newborn ripped from her arms, she had turned on him. A child out of wedlock was trespass enough but the blood she had drawn had been a sin grave enough to warrant banishment.

When she spoke, her words threatened to crack from the weight those memories wrought down upon her. She stood now in front of the man that had seen her ruined and wrenched from her arms her that which was both her greatest failure and accomplishment. Tears did not – _would_ not – come but her words betrayed her just the same.

"The boy…his name?" A simple question. One a mother should know.

Beorn's face softened, the harsh lines around his eyes loosening just barely. His reply was a whisper. "Grimbeorn."

She had not expected him to answer at all. She nodded, fighting the silence that threatened to hush her once more. _Grimbeorn_ …it was a good name. Not what she would have chosen but then again, she had given up her right to protest.

The awkwardness of pressing the conversation weighed on her. Shifting uneasily, Orla continued, "He is well?"

"Well enough. Hard-headed lad. More trouble than you were." Such a simple reply. Again, more than she had expected. It was enough. If she asked anything further, she risked losing more than she might gain.

Her mind distant, she did not notice at first as her father took a step closer to her. His sudden nearness drew her attention and she looked to him once more. He had always been so much larger than life and now…he seemed more like a large predator closing in on a much smaller one. Beorn exhaled and his daughter flinched as the air stirred around her. There was no apology for startling her in his eyes. She did not hope to find it there and it would have been surprising to her if she had.

"How far are you to go with these dwarves?"

It was not a question asked from curiosity, merely an opening that would lead into a warning Orla had no doubt was coming. Beorn did not hold Thorin's folk close to his heart, she knew, and he would surely tell her as much.

She could have said something to spite him, something tinged in bitterness and acrimony. She could have spouted off about heading headlong into danger at the dwarves' sides - or rather she might have if she happened to be the type to spout off about anything. She was not, however. Neither was she bitter.

Instead, she answered simply, "They go to Erebor and I…as far as I am needed."

Beorn was not satisfied but he seemed content to ponder her answer for a moment, lifting a great big hand to stroke at his tangled beard. "As far as needed? Dwarves the likes of them don't need women like you. You know well and good that you'll go as far as the little one – don't go telling me otherwise."

"Aye," Orla admitted, "as far as he needs me."

"The hobbit's no replacement for a son –"

Like a flame to kindling, Orla's temper flared at the assumption in her father's words. She jerked back, head tilting upward to meet the Bear-Man's eyes. _You took my son,_ she wanted to say. Not brave or foolish enough to speak the words aloud, she thought she might will them across the empty space between their bodies. Maybe shoot him a glare or a level on him a withering scowl. But her good sense, or what little she had left after these past few days, reigned.

Beorn had taken her child just as surely as Orla had betrayed her father. Reluctantly, she sighed. Need there be a reason for her attachment to Bilbo? Or to Estel? _No,_ she thought glumly.

Beorn caught her floundering in her mind's tug-o-war. He snorted triumphantly. "Thought as much. Nothing good's going to come of it and you know as much, girl. Dwarves are a greedy lot. It's why I don't do business with them if I can help it. They'll drag you into some deep, dark pit 'til you can't see the light anymore. The kind of place that smothers out goodness. They don't plant flowers underground in their halls of metal and stone. You ought not –"

For the first time, Beorn faltered and for the briefest of seconds something akin to worry flickered in his eyes and was gone. He finished, "You're a damned fool to follow them."

And like that, they were finished with each other once more. Both their ires provoked, father and daughter stepped apart and this time the distance between them felt greater than ever. Ten years had put an ugly scab on a wound that had never fully healed and was now scraped open to air again.

Though not quite the beast he had been when he had cast her away the first time, Beorn was not kind this time around. He growled, "Be gone with you, traitor-whore. Don't take a step closer to the Hall. Take the long way around. I'll deliver your company to you at the edge of the forest."

Orla wondered if perhaps she should have been stricken by his words. She was not. She only nodded her head and bid him a silent goodbye before turning to go. Her feet had not carried her too far when they stopped her one last time, forcing her to turn and look back. Her parting words to him were simple.

"You taught me once that our people came from the mountains. You'll teach the boy as much, I know. But should you think of me when you look at him, tell him…tell him that there is a world beyond those mountains. And if you tell him about me, well, say that the best I could have ever taught him was that home is where you make it – it's the ground under your feet and your family the friends at your side."

The Bear-Man turned away. But this time he did not curse the breath in her body, did not throw her to the ground or banish her forever.

That, at least, was something.


	17. Carry On, My Wayward Son

It was to the shuffle of furry feet and stubby toes that Kili awoke. Eyes opening blearily, his lashes still heavy with the crust of sleep, he managed to focus in on the bare-footed feet that was scurrying to and fro past his pallet.

"Oy! What's the trouble, burglar? Think you might pace a tad bit quieter?"

"Quieter?" Bilbo squeaked. "No one was concerned about 'quiet' when that, that… _man_ went storming out hours ago!"

Kili grumbled and flipped over, all too happy to ignore the hobbit for once. Floors, after all, were much more comfortable than the cold ground and he planned to get as much use out this one as he could whether the hobbit liked it or not. It was no quick task for his thoughts to come round through the hazy early morning fog in his brain. Eventually, they found their way and he realized with alarm what precisely the hobbit was fretting over.

The young dwarf sat up, back cracking, and twisted round to look at Bilbo. "He's not come back yet?"

"No!"

"Well, where do you think he's gone?"

The look he got explained well enough.

"How could he have known?" Kili hissed. Around him, a few dwarves muttered for him and the hobbit both to be quiet. Kili ignored them. "Where's Gandalf?" he asked.

Bilbo said he didn't have the faintest idea. Not that it mattered because a moment later the main door came flying open and Beorn came striding in. The man's dark eyes came to fall on the only two members of the company who were awake. The dwarf glared in response. The hobbit outright glowered.

Beorn grumbled something and slammed shut the door behind him. "Well, out with it! You're both itching to ask, so ask!" he snapped loud enough to cause the others to stir.

Thorin and Balin woke quickly, both of them sitting up to see what the fuss was about. Kili, no longer lazy with sleep, pushed to his feet. Boots off he was a good two inches shorter than normal but he was undeterred from the confrontation.

"Where is she?" Kili demanded. "What've you done with her?"

"Oh, bother!" Bilbo groaned, clearly having underestimated how dangerous voicing such a question aloud would be for all those involved.

Beorn did not come barreling across the room at the two of them as they both anticipated. This was certainly for the best, as neither of them was sure what they would have done if he had. Instead, the big man just scoffed and shook his head.

"Alive and well, I expect. It's a pity that hateful spawn of mine wasn't mentioned at all during your tale last night at supper. Now, where's that confounded wizard? He pulled the wool over my eyes once already and I'll not have him lurking around without my say so!"

Kili said nothing and neither did Bilbo, both relieved at hearing Orla had not been eaten by her father during night and at having escaped a situation with Beorn that may well have ended in their being eaten. Without any further words that were clearer than grumbles, Beorn disappeared from the main hall. The troublesome duo he left behind turned to look abashedly at a scowling Thorin and Balin.

The young dwarf hurried to justify himself. "I was worried –"

"No," Thorin cut in, his glare as fierce in the early morning as it was when he was fully awake, "You were foolish. Back to bed with you. And you, master hobbit."

Grumbling from being so thoroughly scolded, Kili dropped back down to his bed roll. Bilbo followed suit nearby.

"Lot of help you were," Kili muttered just loud enough for the hobbit to hear.

Bilbo ignored the petty jab of a prince whose feelings had been hurt. His mind was somewhere else anyway. As he curled back under his thin blanket, he asked quietly, "Do you think he'll tell him?"

Kili frowned. "Tell _him_? Who's the him he's going to tell?"

"Beorn. Do you think he'll tell the boy about Orla?" Bilbo tried to keep his voice low, going so far as to lean over Bofur's sleeping form so that he could better whisper to Kili.

Unable to get comfortable, Kili rolled to look at the hobbit. "I don't follow, Mister Boggins," he said.

Bilbo looked as if he'd suddenly had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. He stuttered, doing his best to think of how to back track from the gaping pit he'd just talked himself into. "Fili didn't say anything? Oh…well, never mind."

"Never mind what?" Kili's dark eyes narrowed in annoyance that was unlike him. Whether it was due to Orla's being the subject of mention, Bilbo couldn't begin to guess. All the hobbit knew was that he'd stumbled onto something that was not his business. Bagginses had never been the gossiping type and he wasn't about to change the precedent now.

Kili sensed that it was a losing battle and, with his curiosity piqued, he was not about to concede defeat to a hobbit of all people. "Bilbo!" he hissed.

The burglar disappeared behind Bofur.

Unacceptable. Kili would not let it go. "Bilbo Boggins! Listen here, burglar, what –"

"Oh, for Mahal's sake, brother!" An irritated and recently awoken Fili popped up long enough to shoot his younger sibling a look that threatened him with an imminent beating. "The boy, you half-wit! He's Orla's son."

Kili blinked once. Twice. Surely he had misheard. He shook his head to try and clear it of the disbelief before dropping limply onto his back. The ensuing groan was a pained one, as were the words that followed.

"Well, damn it!"

.

* * *

.

It was hours later that even the most exhausted of the company awoke feeling as well rested as they had since leaving Rivendell. Years seemed to have faded from many of the hardened faces and eyes were bright from the wealth of renewed spirits; the entire company looked all the better for the night spent under the Bear-Man's roof. Only Bilbo and Kili looked slightly worse for wear. The young dwarf had not said much since Beorn had burst in a few hours earlier. Instead of embracing the opportunity for some well-deserved rest, he had sat legs crossed atop his bedroll, dark eyes tilted to the ceiling in a rare moment of contemplation. Every now and again, for those who cared to notice, Kili would raise a hand to scratch at his stubbled chin ponderously, as men in deep thought are wont to do.

If anyone had asked, be they his uncle or even his brother, Kili would have denied down to the last breath in his body that anything was wrong. What no amount of familial concern could have drawn from him was that his thoughts of late had been lingering with stubborn tenacity on the fair haired, bright-eyed daughter of Beorn. Orla, Kili realized with no small amount of embarrassment, had featured in more and more of his thoughts the past few days. Had anyone known about it, it likely would have been a great big scandal that an heir of Durin was actually entertaining thoughts of a non-dwarven woman. _Not **those** kinds of thoughts_ , Kili quickly reminded himself. He had to give himself _some_ credit.

Kili remembered back to the evening he had first seen Orla in Rivendell. Naturally, he had ogled the fairer sex of Men before – he was, after all, a strapping young dwarf with an appreciative eye for pretty faces. She had blushed so prettily when he had teased her. In retrospect, it was only fair given the way she'd had him sputtering and scratching his head that first night beneath that confounded outcropping. She'd likely saved his life by hauling him from that rushing water and afterwards caring for his wounds. Again, she had rescued him from that orc archer. At the thought, Kili's cheeks blazed shamefully. He knew well and good that Orla had done more for him than most friends would have. He was indebted to her. Surely that fondness alone was what caused the warmth currently tightening his chest.

But there was something more…some foreign and disquieting feeling that lurked about in the pit of his gut. Something about the knowledge that someone had _had_ Orla, in the way that a man does a wife, just flat _bothered_ the young princeling. It had first appeared the moment Fili had revealed to him the suspicion that the young boy under Beorn's care was not the Bear-Man's son, but Orla's. Kili could not explain it; he'd never felt it before. He could not honestly say he wanted to give it a name.

Regardless of what he wanted, that peculiar emotion would not give way.

As if by cue, the boy appeared. _Grimbeorn_ , Kili reminded himself and for the first time the dwarf actually _looked_ at the child. Beyond the shadow of a doubt there were traces of Orla in the boy. But there were traces of a father there as well, present around the eyes and in the heavy set of the brows. No doubt the child's father had been a tall, brawny fellow, probably sandy-haired and handsome.

Stomach twinging uncomfortably, Kili averted his gaze. What he felt was _not_ jealousy. He refused to believe it for he had no reason at all to feel _that_. But the thought that some man – _no_ , he scowled and corrected himself – some _coward_ had up and abandoned someone like Orla, leaving her with child and at her father's mercy, just grated on the young dwarf prince. What sort of man – and Kili continued to use the term loosely – used and left a woman like that? He'd like to knock the fellow flat on his arse if he could. Dwarven women were so few in number, so precious, and to toss away the gifts they bore…it was unthinkable. _I_ , Kili thought, _would not have left her_. No one had been there to protect her when she had needed it. And yet she still gave. Gave and took arrows for hard-headed young dwarves.

Kili groaned quietly and dropped back against the floor with a thud. Closing his yes, he let out a long-suffering breath. _By Durin_ , he vowed, _she'll have somebody this time 'round_. Fittingly gallant as a prince should, he promised himself that he at least would be there for her.

.

* * *

.

Another day and night passed. A few good meals went by as well, leaving Thorin and Company with full bellies. By the next morning, Gandalf advised them that after breakfast they best get a move on. Thorin agreed heartily. For his part, Beorn had seemed at best agitated, ready no doubt for them to be off. He had, with a great deal of grumbling, refreshed their dwindling food supplies.

While the company packed, their host stood off to the side in conference with the wizard and Thorin.

"You're to go through the forest, then?" Beorn asked.

Knowing that a straight line had long been proven to be the shortest distance between two points, Thorin told him plainly that was indeed their plan. It would be far shorter to go through Mirkwood Forest rather than around it.

Beorn was obviously displeased with the entire idea, repeatedly running his hands through that great black mane of his. As to why the man was so bothered, Thorin could only surmise that it had something to do with the little skin-changer the company had so recently acquired. Though the words could not have been pried from him given the rest of the Third Age, Thorin, for one, was undeniably and irrefutably pleased that Orla would be accompanying his group.

No doubt popular opinion of him would have supposed him to be irritated at having to babysit the whelp of a woman; the opposite was in fact true. Even without Beorn's warnings, Thorin knew well the dangers that awaited them in the dark forest. Having one such as Orla would surely only prove a boon. At least, he dared hope as much. If nothing else, she could keep Mr. Baggins out of trouble. In any case, Orla had done well by Thorin thus far and as such he was willing to go on a little faith.

Despite his feelings, Thorin kept his mouth firmly shut regarding the Bear-Man's estranged daughter and let the man continue on with his warnings.

"Best not follow the Old Road if you know what's good for you. It has grown dark and dangerous in recent times. Orcs and goblins wait for travelers along its edges nowadays, ready to waylay them in the dark. No," Beorn paused before declaring, "Best you follow a different path."

"And what path is that?" Thorin asked, half afraid that father and daughter might share a penchant for handing out hard-to-follow maps. He spared a glance at the wizard beside him but Gandalf showed no sign that he knew of the way about which Beorn spoke.

"An old one," he explained, "I will lead you to its beginning but it will be up to you to reach the end. And remember, do not for any reason stray from it!"

Wise enough to heed his advice, Thorin agreed. "You've given us food aplenty but what of water? My dwarves will be thirsty before long."

Something in Thorin's statement tickled his host and the Bear-Man tossed his head back to laugh loudly.

"No doubt! But I've packed enough water skins. Fill them before you go. If you follow the path like you should, you'll come upon one stream at least, though I would not recommend drinking from it. Whatever you do, you must not do that."

All this talk of magic streams and dark woods and orcs and goblins made Thorin's teeth itch. He would see that the others got the same advice and should the need arise, he would ask Orla about it later – for all the good speaking to her would do. He would just have to trust she would not let them go walking into anything unsavory.

A heavy hand came down on the dwarf king's shoulder. Grinning at him in amusement Thorin did not share, Beorn said, "Off with you, then. I'll stay with you a while longer 'til you're gone from my lands."

Not half an hour later the dwarves and their hobbit departed from Beorn's Hall. Thorin took count and was surprised when he came up with one more among their number than he had expected. At first glance, he thought perhaps he had counted the hobbit twice, seeing the curly light brown head of hair that trailed in the back of the group. Looking again, Thorin saw that it was actually the boy. He was no fool; he'd heard the whispers among his dwarves. The child looked enough like his mother to make it an absurdly simple deduction.

Quietly, he looked up at Gandalf, who strolled alongside him, and asked, "Did you know?"

"Hmm?" The wizard's attention was pulled back from wherever it had been wandering.

"The boy," Thorin clarified.

"I did not."

"After all the years you have known her?" Thorin found that hard to believe. He pressed further, "Why does she leave him? A mother should stay with her child." He tried to picture his own sister, the mother of his two nephews, leaving her children behind. Put simply, he could not.

"That," snapped the old Maiar, "is not your business, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin only shrugged and the question, which had only been asked in a moment of curiosity, was quickly forgotten.

Onward they all marched, across the miles of fields and pastures until they reached the very edge of Beorn's territory. Mirkwood Forest loomed in the distance, a long black smear against the pastoral green. Where Beorn's land was vibrant and pleasant, the forest appeared bleak and dark. Trees, tall as any Thorin had ever seen, twisted like gnarled pikes up from the earth. Their branches intertwined, locking amongst each other like sooty fingers folded in a pitch-dark lap, until hardly any light spilled through. Thorin could only wonder at how they would even find the path, much less follow it.

The company's hope lay at the tree line; their guide's gold and white fur a pretty drop of paint against a black canvas. Seeing their approach, the wolf sat up from her lazed position on the ground. She made no move to come to them, Thorin noted, having no doubt already spied her father.

"Look, father!" a voice cried from behind. "A wolf!" It was Grimbeorn, sure as the sun rose. The boy, like his mother, had keen eyes it seemed.

From nearby, Thorin heard his youngest nephew snort rudely. The older dwarf turned his eyes to Kili, raising an eyebrow in question. He received no answer, however, with Kili deciding to focus instead on the ground at his feet.

The child's remark earned an accompanying grunt from Beorn. Without having to turn and look, Thorin imagined the Bear-Man had trained his gaze on the wolf, fastening her firmly in place. It was not until Grimbeorn spoke again that the wolf moved, seeming to notice the child for the first time. She went stock still for a moment, haunches and forelegs rigid, not so much as a single hair moving. Her trance was brief. She yipped suddenly, bounding forward with a spring more akin to a rabbit than a canine.

The wolf was before them in moments, her lope carrying her quickly over the distance. She passed Thorin and Gandalf, passed Bilbo and Kili. It was only when she reached Beorn that she stopped.

Before his grandfather could so much as open his mouth, the child stepped forward. "Wait," he said, "something's different. That's no wolf." He looked to Beorn. "She's like us."

Beorn said nothing. His only response was a glare and a hard one at that. Beneath it, the wolf shifted, ears twitching. Suddenly, she raised herself up on her hind legs, stretching up to place her paws against Beorn's chest. Clearly, the creature wanted to look him in the eye.

There was an audible intake of breath from every person present. Kili made to step forward and was stilled only by a warning glance from his uncle. Beorn's hands rose and fell firmly though not un-gently against the wolf's neck.

"You will _not_ ," he commanded her.

The wolf dropped down.

At his side, Thorin heard Gandalf's sad sigh. There had been hope in the Grey Wizard's eyes when he had realized Beorn had brought the boy along. As if after all these long years, the man was finally making a small but noble concession in letting Orla lay eyes on the boy.

The wolf retreated a step. She looked to the child – _her_ child. Grimbeorn reached for her as if to pet her. Ever so carefully, that outstretched hand splayed between the wolf's ears, mussing the brandy fur atop her head. A whine, one more pained than even that which she'd uttered upon taking that cursed arrow, broke past her throat. The boy's touch was gone quickly as Beorn drew him away.

"Go now," Beorn said, speaking not to the dwarves but to the wolf alone.

There was a barely perceptible shift of muscles beneath the wolf's coat, a twitching that betrayed her inner debate as to whether or not to obey. In the end, she did. She turned, head low, and prowled slowly away from the two Beornings.

"Orla," Beorn said his daughter's name suddenly. The wolf paused mid-step and looked back over her shoulder. Beorn spoke quietly, voice so rough it was difficult to understand. He said, "Courage and luck go with you, child. I wish you speed and," he glanced down at Grimbeorn before continuing, "should you come back this way ever again, perhaps….perhaps the doors will be open to you."

The wolf held his gaze a moment longer. Finally, she turned away a final time and left her family behind.

.

* * *

.

It was not too much longer before the dwarves had offered their thanks to Beorn and rejoined the wolf at the eaves of the forest. Beside her curled form, Gandalf lay a neat pile of equipment – a bow, quiver, and a white ash knife. She sat up while the others gathered round, their eyes on Gandalf and Thorin so that they did not notice the rustle of air as the wolf disappeared and the woman stood once more in its place. Orla gathered up her gear as Gandalf spoke, reminding them all that he was not to join them on their journey through Mirkwood.

He looked to Orla, who was struggling with a stubborn buckle at her side. "My dear, you'll take care of them, won't you?"

Her eyes flicked up, grey and wide. She knew that she had promised him already that she would do her best to guide this desperate group to the other side of the woods. She just did not like being reminded of it. Nodding once, she resumed her battle with the buckle.

"See there?" Gandalf smiled. "You have nothing to fear."

More than one dwarf grumbled their doubts but most remained quiet while Gandalf continued. "Now, off quick as you may! I've business to the south and you've yours with a forest and a dragon. But forget those things for a while yet. At least until the morrow. So cheer up, my good dwarves!"

Ori asked hopefully, "Will we see you again?"

"You may and you may not. That depends on your luck. But I am sending Mr. Baggins with you, and I have hope that he'll see you through 'til the end."

It was with that final and duly unreassuring note that Gandalf departed.

It was left to Thorin to order a final check of supplies. He had them all drink and refill their water-skins. The packs were heavy when they lifted them up on their shoulders. Bilbo thought he might tip over from the weight of his. He said as much.

Thorin looked to the hobbit with a faint grin. "Don't you worry, Mr. Baggins. It will get lighter all too soon."

Orla stood close enough to catch Thorin's words and she did hesitate to toss a scolding glare in his direction. He, for the most part, ignored her. "And you?" he asked. "Is your business here concluded?"

_For now, yes._ She offered him a bright and happy smile then. _Don't you worry!_

Falser words had never gone unspoken.


	18. Welcome to Hell, erm, Mirkwood

Three days. Three long days spent trudging and tripping over root and rock. It was a down right awful experience for Bilbo. He had lost count of how many times he had stubbed his toes and scraped his feet amidst the unforgiving foliage of the landscape. It was only every five minutes or so that a dwarf would curse or cry out, having tripped over some ugly, jagged stump or upturned root plotting to catch them unawares. It only made matters worse that they all walked so close together so that the moment one of them pitched forward, it was a guarantee that the others in from of him would do so as well.

Not an hour ago – well, perhaps it was an hour, Bilbo could not really keep track there in the dark – he had watched Fili go crashing into Kili, who knocked poor and unsuspecting Orla to the ground. They had all been forced to stop and help untangle delicate, lithe limbs from stocky ones. Bilbo himself had no room to judge the mishap, for he'd fallen into Bofur twice and onto Bifur at least once.

Despite the struggle to stay upright, Orla bid them silently to forge onward through the murk of the forest. It was that reason that the hobbit was so alarmed when he saw her stop suddenly. A delicate hand went up, plucking through the darkness at something they could not see, urging them to halt. Bilbo moved out of the way as Thorin, who was in no better mood than his companions, brushed briskly past and went to stand next to the woman.

Gruffly, he demanded, "What is it? Why have we stopped?"

Orla flitted away from the dwarf king's side and over to the edge of the path. Tilting her head back, she scanned the shadowy bows of the trees for a long while, head tilting this way and that. Finally, when their uneasiness could hardly be contained any longer, Orla raised a single finger and crooked it toward something high above. Bilbo had not seen it, the dark being much too dark for him to look anywhere but straight ahead. But now he squinted with sharp hobbit eyes which, like hobbit ears, were better in general than those of dwarves. He saw it then, the thing that had Orla so displeased that she had since crossed her arms with a huff and turned to scowl unforgivingly at Thorin. Through the inky shadows of the canopy glistened faint and white the nesting of creatures to which Bilbo had yet to give any thought. A milky blur, with edges so fine amidst the void of black that it seemed hardly more than a trick of the light. But there was no light and the silver sheen that twirled and swirled almost prettily around the branches was the work of spiders rather than illusion.

Thorin observed as much aloud before pointing out to the rest of them the faint shimmer of webbing that criss-crossed like Grandmother Baggins' crochet above their heads.

_Spiders,_ Bilbo paused a moment to contemplate just a bit. _Did he say 'spiders'? Surely not! As if the dark wasn't bad enough without creatures crawling through it!_

"All manner of things lurk here in the dark. We needn't be surprised about it. Well done nonetheless," Thorin said to Orla before motioning them on.

It did not escape Bilbo's notice that they all began to look over their shoulders with greater frequency from then on.

The number of steps he took until they next stopped was lost on him. The forth night of camp saw them all bedding down warily. As had become habit for him, Bilbo looked for Orla before settling down beside her, glad for her presence almost as much as he would have been for Gandalf's. She remained always near the edge of camp, rarely joining the others. They neither invited her nor barred her from doing so; she simply found the idea unpalatable. A few of the dwarves had yet to adjust to her presence and a few more still had been distanced from her since finding out her lineage.

Tonight, however, seemed different. At first glance, as Bilbo nested down beside her, he thought all was well with his friend and watcher. Small things soon began to alert him otherwise. The slight bob and draw of her head, the drooping of her eyelids, perhaps all symptoms of fatigue but Bilbo could not help but to suspect differently. Orla was no longer alert and listening – a watchdog for the others. It was not until Mr. Baggins pushed aside his good manners for the time being and outright stared at her that he noticed how haggard the young woman was looking.

"Orla?" He asked quietly. "Are you alright?"

Her eyes lazed in his direction, dull when they had been bright.

It took too long for Bilbo's liking for her to answer his question. She nodded once and left it at that. That did not stop her hand from creeping up so that she could worry at the spot between her eyes, pinching and kneading at what was no doubt a headache.

_Perhaps she's hungry._ Bilbo knew he certainly could do with a good meal himself. He opened his mouth to ask her as much. If she heard the question at all, she did not show it.

It was not a minute more spent worrying over her when suddenly Dwalin's voice boomed too-loudly from behind and both Orla and her burglar startled.

"Oy, wolf, why don' ye use that nose a'yers and track us down a decent meal?"

There were rumblings of halfhearted agreement throughout the camp. To no one's surprise in particular, the youngest dwarf spoke up in Orla's defense. "Leave her alone why don't you, Dwalin? Your growling belly isn't her problem."

"The lad's right this time, my friend. Wolf or no, no one strays from the path." Thorin's intervention succeeded where Kili's had failed and the tattooed dwarf begrudgingly sat down.

Bilbo could not hold back the sad breath that whisked unbidden from between his chapped lips. "Spiders, dark forests, and hungry bellies. The mountains don't look so awful now, I fear," he muttered.

For the moment, Orla seemed to have returned to herself. She reached out a hand and ran it through Bilbo's lank curls. _It'll be alright,_ the gesture told him. He hoped so.

"You keepin' an eye on our lady friend, Mr. Boggins?"

Bilbo sat up with a twitch. He had dozed off, head propped against Orla's shoulder. Kili was standing nearby and his brother not far behind. They both dropped down in front of the seated pair.

"Jealous?" Fili grinned as he tucked his feet beneath him.

The dark-haired brother snapped his head in the fair one's direction, eyes flashing with almost enough threat to disguise the color currently heating his cheeks.

Fili chuckled and said, "Oh, look at him blush." He shook his head, his fair braids flipping about his face. "You have my condolences, Lady Orla."

Orla gave him a small smile as if she had been in on the joke. She had not. But smiling was better than blushing and truthfully, it was no secret that she enjoyed Kili's company. Since their journey into Mirkwood began and much to the hobbit's alternating amusement and annoyance, the dwarf had hardly left her side.

Looking to Kili then, Orla waved a forgiving hand at him, urging him to laugh, if only for her benefit. But Kili was no longer looking at her. He was making a grand show of looking anywhere but at her.

With a final glare for his brother, he bit off a cheap excuse about checking on Ori. Odd though the young scholar was, nobody believed he'd go chasing butterflies off into the darkness. Orla watched Kili as he stomped off, leaving her with only Fili and Bilbo. With a sigh and troubled hand in her hair, she stood, pausing long enough to point Fili to the hobbit.

"What?" the dwarf inquired innocently.

_Watch him,_ Orla ordered with narrowed eyes.

The camp was not a large one, small enough to fit along the old path and its arboreal confines, so it was not as if she had to look too hard to see where Kili had gone. She passed Ori with a glance and noted without any remarkable surprise that Kili was not with him.

Kili, in fact, had retreated to the far edge of the path and was too far from the camp for Orla's comfort. She had dragged him once from the mouth of a river and she'd rather not do so again, this time from the mouth of Mirkwood's oversized spiders. Thorin's youngest heir was looking back the way the company had come, his arms crossed over his chest. Orla joined him wordlessly. He did not look at her when he spoke.

"Following me are you?"

Orla said nothing, content to reward his petulance with silence she had yet to break for him.

"Well, you don't have to," he told her, "If there's trouble here, I haven't found it yet."

A long pause of nothing awaited him as Orla found more interest in picking away dirt from underneath her broken nails.

"Here now! A fella' needs his space! Go watch Mr. Boggins or, or…fetch something!"

In a flash, a small hand cuffed the back of his head so hard and so quickly that it sent him pitching forward into the underbrush.

"Ow!" Kili hopped to his feet and whirled to face her, eyes narrowed and hands rubbing furiously at his newest and most deserved injury. "What was that for? By Durin, that…ow!"

Orla still said nothing and merely folded her arms over her chest before leveling on him a reproachful look that promised swift revenge should he ever, ever tell her to _fetch_ something ever again.

Grumbling, Kili said, "I think I like you better on all fours."

His words earned him a single quirked brow. Orla could see the cogs as they began to turn slowly, certain corners of his mind no doubt dusty and rusted in areas long since stimulated. The blush that had colored his cheeks a few minutes earlier was nothing compared to the berry-stain magenta that was all of a sudden creeping up his neck and cheeks like a bad rash.

He stammered, "That, I…oh, you know what I mean, woman!"

Placated with having won the round, Orla dropped her arms. She offered him a winner's smile of genuine glee mixed with a tiny bit sadistic joy.

She had not yet had the chance to step away when Kili's voice beckoned her ear once more. He said, "Although, I'm sure you're marvelous on all fours even without the tail," Kili paused long enough to make a show of imagining the idea before adding, "Especially without the tail."

She should have known. She knew she should have known. Kili was grinning fiercely at having come out on top of the verbal match, all traces of his former embarrassment gone. It seemed that he indeed prevailed, for Orla could do nothing but tuck that proverbial tail and retreat. He followed her, catching up with her before she had reached the hobbit's side.

"Oh, come now!" Kili chuckled. "You can't blame a fella' for tryin'!"

He nudged her arm with his shoulder and she stumbled a bit, straightening and stepping away before he could reach for her. She danced past Gloin and Oin and then around Bombur, losing Kili amidst the crowded campsite. By the time he caught up with her once more she was back at Bilbo's and Fili's sides. In their absence, Fili had since conned Bilbo's little elvish blade from him. The short sword now lay across the blond dwarf's lap, its blade shining with only the faintest of sapphire hues. A slight shimmer in the dark to remind them that they were never truly far from danger in this forest.

The hobbit was murmuring back and forth with Fili as the dwarf showed him how to properly run a whet stone along the blade. Orla watched silently, paying no mind to Kili as he settled down beside her. Eventually, the quiet metallic scrape lulled her into drowsiness and her lids began to droop. She started to shrug out of her worn duster with the intention of using it as a pillow when she felt a different ball of leather being pressed into her hands.

"Take mine," her shadow offered her thoughtfully.

Orla shook her head to reject it but Kili insisted. Defeated, she took it and arranged it neatly behind her so that she could lay back. Her eyes closed, eager to rest before the headaches returned once more, yet she felt the dwarf's eyes on her nonetheless. Illuminated by the soft blue glow near her head, her skin prickled as she was studied. In between the sounds of Fili's work, her keen ears caught the whisper of a quick and surprised inhalation. The tickle of observance was gone then and in its wake followed the sound of heavy boots against damp earth. Kili had gone and she did not feel like deciding whether this saddened her or not.

Orla's mind was just descending into the dark bliss of sleep when the young dwarf returned. A warm knee slid momentarily against her thigh as Kili folded his legs beneath him. He said nothing, Bilbo's soft voice the only one to be heard. Moments slithered by, slow and drawling against any haste. Orla was barely aware of the hand that passed lightly over her face and hovered at her cheek, thinking it a dream. It was not until she felt the cool damp of a cloth that her eyes flickered open to see Kili's hand clutching a rag as he dabbed at her face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a dark line above dark eyes that should have been severe but was instead gentle. He looked at her briefly when her eyes met his and he smiled, drawing his hand and the cloth away.

Quietly, he explained, "Didn't notice 'til that sword started shining but your cheek's gone purple again. It had ought to be cleaned before it festers and, you know, falls off or something."

Orla had known she was in bad shape since stumbling from those cursed tunnels. She had not thought of it since then. Nor had anyone else other than Oin. If her father had noticed at all or been worried, even he had said nothing. The bruises and scrapes still pained her from when the goblins had dragged her into their pit. Her knee occasionally ached from where she had smashed it while fleeing from them. The arrow wound had finally started to heal, dwarven healing balms doing a remarkable job at making the process more bearable. Now, she recalled the sharp sting of teeth as they had sank into the flesh of her cheek when the goblins had herded her down their tunnel.

"You should've said somethin'," Kili scolded her, "It might be infected."

She could not easily shrug from her place on the ground so she settled for remaining still, content to let him work. Her eyes tracked the trail of his hands as he reached to fish something from his pockets. From those cotton depths he drew out a small jar.

"Uncle gave me this," he informed her with a grin, no doubt having finagled it from Thorin just minutes earlier. "He says it won't keep it from scarring but it'll do to chase away infection."

Unscrewing the lid, he dipped a finger into the goo. It was black, or at least it appeared so in the murk of the forest. Orla could smell it from where she lay. Her nose wrinkled delicately and she turned her head away. Kili tittered amusedly before drawing her face back toward him with a gentle hand. He warned her, "Might burn."

It did burn but the comforting warmth of the fingers holding her chin relaxed her. She neither said anything nor moved. She did not so much as breathe in case the faintest breath might chase away the thumb that was tracing light circles over her chin. Kili's other hand worked with surprising finesse, spreading the balm and massaging it into the sore flesh of her cheek.

"Hmm, let it scar, I say," he observed softly, half smiling. "Adds character."

It mattered naught whether the bite mark would remain with her or fade over time; she had acquired plenty other nicks and scrapes since her time with the dwarves. The scars would be fodder for good stories down the road.

Kili's ministrations went on a while longer, his hands lingering until after the sounds of a whet stone against metal had ceased. Some might have said his hands stayed too long but for Orla, it was just long enough for her to find a moment's peace and drift away into the arms of her dreams.


	19. A Rather Calamitous Undoing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with Mirkwood so I hope you don't mind too terribly! Also, I know this is a long chapter and I was originally going to split it in two but I don't want Mirkwood to stretch on for too much longer. The format is slightly different here; I've divided it up part way through the chapter in case any of you want to read it in halves if you're busy.

Thorin and Company's remaining cheer wore off within the next few days. Bellies grew hungrier and throats became drier as supplies started to dwindle among the dwarves. Their flasks had emptied faster than they should have but between the unexplainable bouts of humidity and chill, sipping became an understandable way to pass the time.

For one member of the company in particular, the forest itself seemed to have its own vendetta against her. Long ago, the woods in which the group now walked had been better known as Greenwood but no longer did that name seem fitting. Something awful and unknown had taken up residence in the once fair wood, casting a shadow over every tree and creature. Orla had heard the stories from rangers and elves alike; she knew well that worse things than spiders roamed this place. Corrupted creatures with blood like oil, rotted from inside out until the animal was gone and the beast remained. Whatever taint that caused Mirkwood's unnatural darkness had begun to snake slowly inwards, slinking past the guards of Orla's mind to breach its inner depths. In moments of clarity, which were becoming few and far between, she noticed that the others seemed fine, untouched save for the expected nervousness and claustrophobia.

That which had begun as flutterings in the dark, like the whisper of bat wings or the velvety _slip-slide_ of spider legs, crept and wriggled between the skin-changer's ears. The headache that ensued was attributed at first to exhaustion and certainly, most hopefully, not to madness. Her feet had started to drag, seemingly a step and a half behind her body at all times. She had never felt this sort of sinking, weighted feeling though she had been tired many times over in her travels. It pressed from the crown of her head down to the soles of her feet, its achy, tainted hold wrapping round her spine and squeezing tight. Occasionally, she would sway on her feet, only to be steadied by an ever-hovering hand at the small of her back.

Kili, she noticed, rarely left her side now, having been undeterred by their exchange days earlier - an exchange Orla found she could hardly remember, though she tried to think back on it many times in an effort to cheer herself. The position that Bilbo had previously occupied had been filled by the young dwarf, allowing the hobbit to be tucked more safely amidst the group. Despite the weight the forest taint wrought down atop her weary shoulders, Orla could yet feel the worried eyes Kili cast frequently up at her. He said nothing now to trouble her, his words instead joking and cheerful. Orla did her best to smile for him, did her best to be the shining light they expected her to be, but her grins became rarer as time wore blindly on.

She focused on the path forward. The whispers, such as they were, never left her. They pulled her, called her from the path until she was forced to stop. Fingers embedded themselves deep in the snarl of matted curls, pulling and tugging as if the actions could wrench the corruption from her mind.

From behind, someone called, "Why have we stopped?"

Had it been Thorin? Orla found she could no longer tell, the dwarves' voices having become increasingly distorted through the white noise in her mind.

"Orla?" someone asked of her.

She glared out from between her raised forearms and saw despite the shadows that it was Kili's lips moving. A broken and unconvincing chuckle forced itself harshly from his throat. " _Hehe_ , you haven't looked at me like that since Rivendell!"

This time his smile went wholly unreturned. She did not know what he meant. Had she been in Rivendell? She thought she once had. With an uncharacteristic grunt, Orla turned away, her hands dragging from her hair to press roughly at her temples. Strands of dingy gold were wound intermittently between her fingers, ripped from the roots in her haste. Her teeth grit and somewhere a tooth cracked in the back of her mouth, its jagged edge drawing blood from her gums. She did not cry out, did not open her mouth to spit away the fragment. Still, the whispers urged her to let go, to throw back her head and frighten away the pain and exhaustion with a mighty howl.

"Oy! What's the matter with ye, girl? A hungry belly? We're all sufferin' so move yer arse on!"

"Dwalin!" Kili or Thorin snapped. Bofur or Balin might have spoken as well but Orla did not hear.

The wolf-woman straightened with so sudden a fierceness that Kili fell back from her. An entirely unhuman snarl erupted from her lips as a finger snapped forward to viciously jab in Dwalin's direction. Never in all her years had such a threat been given voice and breath. Rarely had one even been thought. The words she spat did not seem like her own, should not have been her own. They tasted of acid, prickling and cutting her throat as if swallowing glass shards.

She growled, "I will _tear_ your throat from you, dwarf!"

Fleetingly, the woman in her realized with horror that uttering those vile words was an irrevocable surrender to whatever it was that had hold of her. Regret, sadly, was lost in the red and black haze that swept over and within her, choking her, filling her.

Eyes widened all around and hands went for the nearest weapons. Bilbo gave a high pitched gasp, his head shaking in disbelief between shuddering shoulders. Even Dwalin, who had seen countless battles and was afraid of nothing, took a stunned step back.

Whatever rebuke followed was drowned out by a new sound, one unheard since the warg encounter on the mountain. It was a growl - fierce and rabid, the sort that came from feral beasts and not from girls. A brief moment later, where Orla had stood, the wolf now prowled forth. The creature's ears pressed low, her head down between bowed shoulders. Black lips drew back to reveal the glint of fangs, pale and dangerous. The dwarves fell silent and, for the moment at least, the whispers, too, had gone. The wolf's mind brought with it the sanctity of peace and surrender and yet, ebbing there alive and breathing was a red-hot pulse, a snarl of human and bestial thought that had never before been so indistinguishably tangled.

One of the dwarves called to her, his voice rough, disapproving. It promised her retribution if she should strike. Grey animal eyes looked to the one who had spoken, taking in the threat. Taller than the others, black hair and beard. He had a name but…no, the wolf did not recall it.

"Let 'er come, Thorin. Beast's gone rabid!" The tattooed dwarf moved to draw his sword, ready to use it should the wolf leap.

"No!" the hobbit, who had mostly gone unnoticed, interjected suddenly in a voice louder than that which was probably safe. "O-Orla," he stammered, his small hands ringing at his waistcoat, "what will your father say if you go getting yourself stuck on the end of Dwalin's sword? You'll be awfully dead then."

At his words, the wolf's eyes twitched and the tension in her shoulders softened somewhat. It was unclear whether she was listening or debating on gobbling him up as an appetizer.

"And poor Grimbeorn!" Bilbo continued with a wail, "You wouldn't go and leave him all alone again, would you?"

Cool grey eyes warmed, if only just. The wolf shook her head, stepping back, one paw hovering above the black dirt in hesitation.

"Good thinking, burglar," Balin whispered but Bilbo did not try to acknowledge him, his brown eyes instead watching the wolf hopefully.

A new voice spoke and the wolf's ears flicked to-and-fro with debate. "Orla?"

The wolf cocked her head as Kili took a step forward, a hand outstretched tentatively. "That'a girl," he murmured.

Slowly and with difficulty, the snarl in her mind began to unravel. Not a moment too soon for the dwarves' liking did the wolf come to her senses. There was a shudder in the air, a quickly passing pressure, and there stood Orla once more. She looked as one properly ashamed should – her head bowed low, hands fisting her coat sleeves. She did not look at Kili or Bilbo or Dwalin. She did not look at any of them. Her lips parted and closed several times over but no words came from them. Her mind still spun, thoughts whirling in and out of focus. She thought of Bilbo and Grimbeorn and Kili. She tried to focus on each of them, tried to put the world back in perspective, tried not to think awful thoughts like tearing dwarves' throats out.

Kili spoke in her stead and once again she was glad to hear him, happy to return a voice to the face in her head. "It's this forest, isn't it? It's doing something to you because you're…what you are."

She had to think hard. Was he right? He could be. Or maybe that was a squirrel she was hearing now, just away from the path. Orla's head bobbed uncertainly. It was not in response to Kili's question but the dwarf did not guess as much.

Nearby, Thorin shifted on his feet, his unease slowly subsiding. "A comforting thought," he grunted.

One hand still fingering his sword, Fili added, "Explains why Beorn didn't want us coming this way."

Thorin and the others nodded in agreement but little else was said. The dwarf king approached Orla with renewed wariness, a gleam in his eyes when he looked at the woman that had not been present since his nephew had first introduced her on the plains. If it was from distrust or worry, none among the group cared to wager, nor could they tell whether the hand he placed on Orla's arm was for her benefit or his own.

"Fall back for a while, girl."

He spoke softly but his eyes boded no lip, not that any was expected. Orla nodded and made to move away but not before placing a cold and shaky hand atop the one on her arm. Thorin met her eyes and she managed to hold them just long enough. _Just follow the path._

Thorin was not so unobservant as to miss the enervation rampant in her gaze, having left no trace of the bright-eyed excitement and ever present cheer that had been there in the weeks past. He saw now how she had changed. Whether it was the taint in this forsaken place or the things she had witnessed since leaving Elrond's sanctuary, he had no way of knowing. It was a sad thing but the future King Under the Mountain supposed there was naught to be done for her. Instead, he simply tipped his head in response and said quietly, "Aye, follow the path."

He had not been long in the lead when he found himself wondering to where exactly the path had gotten.

.

* * *

.

Hours later, the group finally drew wearily to a halt. The eldest among them, hardy though they were, dropped down where they stood and did not bother to spread out their bedrolls before sinking into a deep but restless sleep. Orla was one of the few who could not manage sleep and she took to wearing a path along the camp's small perimeter, prowling about, her mind and spirit on a razor's edge. The youngest dwarf tried and failed to catch her eye each time she passed, only to be forced to watching her make another silent loop before she double back once more.

"Orla," he called quietly, receiving no immediate answer as the woman paced by him.

With that last failed acknowledgment, he had had quite enough and, though he himself was more than ready for rest, he stood and caught her by the arm. She spun around, eyes wide with indignation, and snatched her arm from his grip. A mere second later she appeared to return to her senses, and she frowned sheepishly. Her hand reached for his and she clasp it tightly, begging his forgiveness, before releasing him again.

Undeterred, Kili dared to take a step closer to her. His uncle and most of the others were to unconscious to care. "Orla, you ought to rest."

_Can't._ She shook her head.

"Clear your mind, I mean. Think about something other than this place."

Her brow creased and he could tell by the set of her mouth that she was about to argue, so to head her off at the pass, he reached for bowstring strung across her chest. His fingers fell at her collar bone and he plucked gently at the bow.

"Let me see it, will you?"

Momentarily uncertain, she soon shrugged the weapon from over her head and passed it off to the princeling. He took the bow in one hand and reached – more cautiously this time – to take her wrist and pull her to far side of camp, farthest from where Thorin rested.

"See that tree there," he asked once he had stopped.

_I see many trees._

"The largest, blackest one – with the knob jutting out."

Orla nodded but continued to look no less perplexed. Perplexed was better than what she had been and Kili was content to use it as a spring board for the moment.

"Take a shot," he handed the bow back to her. "Go on."

_Dwarf,_ her gaze warned, brow knitted together.

"Oh, humor me! Quick, before I have to come up with some encouragement."

With a sigh, she drew an arrow from the quiver at her back and notched it. Her stance was awkward, legs too close and knees too rigid but Kili knew well enough not to correct her just yet. The arrow was released seconds later and embedded itself in the tree. It was the right tree, at least, but it had struck too high and to the right.

"Well…you hit it."

Orla looked unimpressed with the observation, thrusting the weapon back at him. _Of course I hit it. I am not entirely incompetent, dwarf._

"Modesty, milady!" Kili chuckled. "By hit it, I mean just barely. It's a glancing blow at best."

_It is not._

She turned to look back at the tree. If she were being truthful, the shot would have struck a full grown man in the bicep. Put out by the realization, she turned to leave Kili's side, no longer willing to play at this game. Before she could even step away, that same harried look fell over her again and the dwarf saw well that he was losing ground.

Quickly, he nudged her and said, "Try once more. Aim for that part there," he gestured at the knot sticking out from the trunk. "If you make it, I'll let you kiss a dwarf of your choice. Namely myself, as I'm the only choice. Everyone else is sleeping and it wouldn't do for you to go round molesting them."

Orla's mouth fell open, now too appalled by the idea presented to her to give any thoughts to agitation. She grabbed back from Kili her bow and readied a second shot. This time, she missed the tree entirely.

Raising a hand to scratch at his chin, more than likely in an attempt to distract from his newly formed frown, Kili remarked, "I suspect you did that on purpose, madame."

_Alas,_ Orla sniffed imperiously before looking away, _I did no such thing._

"Let me help you," he suggested, only to be shooed away as she pulled a third arrow from the quiver. She drew back the bow but Kili reached for her again. Dancing away, Orla scowled over at him, determined now that she would do better this time.

"You're going about it all wrong!" the dwarf hissed, "Who taught you to aim?"

From the look of utter disdain she gave him, he quickly gathered that she had taught herself. Giving chase to the woman with the armed bow, he tried to charm his way back into her good graces.

"Ah, well, good on you, then. But don't you think you've a bit more to learn? Minor corrections?" Her glare still had not abated and he reached again to try and adjust her elbow, only to be foiled again.

"By Mahal, hold still!" he cried more loudly than he had intended. Orla was having no part of it and she whirled about to line up her third shot.

What ensued was something straight out of both archers' worst nightmares, as no sooner had Orla got her footing than did Kili lose his and trip into her, knocking her around. With a cry, the woman stumbled and instinctually threw an arm out to steady herself, unintentionally loosing the arrow. In the dimness surrounding them, they did not see its arc until it landed with a _thwump,_ burrowing half-shaft deep in the single most unfortunate place it could have possibly found.

Thorin, for his part, did not become immediately alarmed until his bleary eyes registered that there was an elvish arrow jutting out from the pack beneath his head. With a call to arms loud enough to wake every dwarf present, the company's leader scrambled to his feet, one hand reaching for Orcrist.

Nearby, Orla shoved the bow back to Kili, suddenly rather keen on the idea of his holding onto it. Sputtering and with nothing left to do but marvel at how expediently the well-intentioned situation had deteriorated into disaster, Kili could only stand there. And when all the eyes turned to him, he was left incriminatingly alone, for the woman responsible no longer stood at his side. Instead, a wolf sat where she had been, looking innocently back at the newly awakened dwarves.

.

* * *

.

The Company's hate for the forest grew so in the next few days that it made their memories of the goblin tunnels seem like a pleasant vacation. Though the path lacked the weight of tons of rock and stone above their heads, the black-leafed canopy felt inexplicably more oppressive. No end to the path was in sight, no matter how fervently they wished for it. It began to feel like a curse, some horrible and slow death, as they were dragged by their own feet ever deeper into the foul depths of the wood.

Things – spiders and goblins and bats – horrible unnamed creeping things began to follow them. They were trailed during the day and surrounded in the night, glowing eyes above and to their right and left and everywhere in between. The skin-changer in their company took to growling and snarling with such constancy that Thorin had made a habit of pinching her ear and, if she was not walking as a woman, popping her soundly across the snout. Several nights in a row they had tried to light fires but the flames put the shape-shifter into a perpetual state of nervousness that they'd had to put them out. Like any animal with sense – or lack thereof – she was frightened by the orange-red glow, retreating fearfully to the edge of camp. This was just the mildest of the problems. The swarms of moths and bugs that were drawn to the fires were infinitely worse.

"Miss Orla," Dori finally tried asking one night, "how far do you suppose it is to the other side?"

But Miss Orla only looked blankly at him for a while. Dori asked her again and she seemed to finally hear him because she shot to her feet with such precision and speed that it startled all those around. She grinned at Dori, teeth shining sharply through the darkness. He knew what the others said about her eyes so he tried unsuccessfully to decipher something there. He would have sworn there was nothing though, no hidden message or conversational gleam.

But the never before seen smile twisting her lips told him something. He had not yet figured out just what when Orla shucked off her bow and then her coat in a blink. Her boots followed, then the rest of her clothes until she was left in nothing but the skin she was born in. That itself seemed uncomfortable for her because she did not stay in it long. Propriety and sanity had abandoned the once demure woman and she did not seem to care one whit about the fourteen cries that proclaimed the observation aloud. She was a blur of skin and then fur as she left to fetch an answer for Dori.

Obviously and most unfortunately for the dwarves, she had decided to fetch that answer on her own. Sure enough, before any one of them could clamber after her, she was gone and disappeared down into the darkness.

Dori whirled round to gape wide-eyed at the thirteen faces behind him. "Oh dear! I didn't mean for her to –"

His fretting, however, was drown out by the ruckus of his fellows.

"Hah! Naked as a barwench on 'er back!"

"You shut your mouth!"

"Thorin! Thorin, she's left the path!"

"I…see that."

"You think we ought to fold the lady's clothes for her?"

More whoops and worries followed. The sudden cacophony even drove away the creatures that lurked nearby, the eyes blinking out of existence as their owners scattered away from the noise. It was not too long before the shock dissipated and the thirteen dwarves and hobbit were once again reminded by Orla's lengthening absence to start worrying. Through the night they waited, with Thorin twice having to refuse his nephews' request to go after the woman. Bilbo, at least, busied himself by gathering Orla's clothes up and folding them neatly before tucking them away into his pack. He slipped her bow over his back, dismayed that it would suffer the ill-treatment of being dragged behind him, and tucked the pretty little dagger from Orla's boot into his pack.

It was early morning and the pitch dark was beginning to lighten to just plain dark when they heard a familiar canine pant that announced the wolf's return. The creature leapt into the little clearing where the dwarves waited and circled round to Thorin, who stood desperately hoping the wolf would remain a wolf and would not go turning back into a woman. That was the beast's plan it seemed, for she slinked right up to the dwarf king and nosed him forward with a demanding growl. The animal was at least in a better mood, he noted, than she had been a few days ago.

Thorin frowned down at her, eyes hard as he studied her. There was something black and oily around her muzzle, remnants of a snack she must have picked up during her excursion. The thought was enough to give him pause. He had thought their skin-changer to be selective in her eating habits before now. Orla herself had refused to hunt in these woods, believing any prey to be unfit to eat. Being the sensible dwarf he considered himself to be, Thorin had to question the wisdom of following what might now be more a wolf than woman into the unknown stretches of murk. As he stood there debating, the wolf gave another impatient growl.

"Very well," the future King Under the Mountain said, though not without reservation. "We'll follow you once more."

And follow the wolf they did. For several long hours they trailed after her along the bleak, never-ending path. It was not until that bleak, never-ending path was suddenly blocked by water that they realized they had gotten anywhere. Not quite a creek and not quite a stream, the water flowed fast and strong. The water, much like the forest that sheltered it, was black and would have looked more like tar than water if it was not moving so quickly.

"The beast actually did it," grumbled Dwalin as he barreled up beside Thorin.

"So it seems," his friend murmured, blue eyes still fastened suspiciously to the water.

Dwarves shuffled forward, nearer to the edge of the bank, and the air about them lightened somewhat, if only for the change in scenery.

Ori gave a woeful sniffle and muttered, "I'm so thirsty! Might we have a drop to drink?"

"You will not!" Thorin snapped, having taken to heart Beorn's warning that there was an enchanted stream somewhere in this forest. The obvious conclusion was that _this_ was _that_ stream.

Ori's brother Nori, however, clearly thought it better to ask forgiveness than permission. No sooner had the dwarf outstretched a hand to the water than teeth, piercing and dull all at once, sank unforgivingly into his palm. Nori howled and the wolf growled, yanking his hand back before releasing him. It was no gentle nip of warning she had given him; the flesh of his palm was split and bleeding and a finger hung pitifully askew. He cursed her and drew back and she did the same, taking it upon herself to prowl predatorily back and forth between the water and the group.

"You'll get no goodwill from me, now," Nori snapped, wringing his hand sorely before looking for something to wrap it in.

The others did not see the severity of the wound or no doubt weapons would have been drawn once again. Instead, most of them were busy scratching their heads at a way to cross this new obstacle. There had been a bridge once but it had long since rotted away, its timbers time-softened remnants of what they had once been. Unsurprisingly, it was Bilbo who first spotted the solution.

"A boat!" he cried. "Drat! It's on the other side though."

Thorin joined him, one hand raised above his brows as he narrowed his eyes to peer across. "How far?"

Bilbo squinted a while longer before finally estimating the distance at twelve yards. The news brought a much needed smile to Thorin's face. It was not there long before fading again. He told them, "Twelve yards is as good as a mile when one can't set so much as a toe in the water. I daren't ask any of you to swim it and there's none among us with the legs to jump it."

Bilbo looked up at him with a gleam in his eyes. He had an idea. "Can any of you toss a rope?"

Thorin and several others raised their brows skeptically.

"I don't think it's tied," the hobbit quickly explained, "If we can hook it, we can drag it over."

Thorin thought for a moment and then called over his nephews. They looked at the boat, heads tilting away and then back towards each other so that they could confer. Finally, Fili announced that he thought he'd be able to do the task. He was given a rope and a hook, which he tied expertly to the rope. It took several tries but finally there was a resounding clink of metal hitting wood. Fili tugged to test his work and found it to be sound. With a proud grin at his uncle and a boastful one to his little brother, he proceeded to pull the boat across the water.

There was a surprising hurry to get across, no doubt from the dwarves' desire to be somewhere other than on their current side of the path. Each time a group was taken across, the rope was left with someone on the other bank so that the boat could be drawn back across the water and more dwarves sent over. It was not until Bombur, who came last, got ready to follow that the company's run of bad luck caught up with them once more. All the while that the dwarves had been making their attempt as sailors, the wolf had been pacing agitatedly along the bank. She had refused Kili and Bilbo's urging to climb into the boat, going so far as to snap at Kili when he'd reached for her. Now, she continued her circuit as Bombur tried and failed to get her into the boat with him.

Her ears fluttered, listening for something other than the rotund dwarf's labored breathing. There was hardly a moment's notice before a previously unseen animal came sprinting out of the murk and onto the bank of the water. The new creature came with the sound of hooves, which ceased long enough for it startle and blow unhappily. In the moment of its surprise, the dwarves saw that it was a deer. Its hide was a ghostly silver and its antlers more immense than any mere stag.

The wolf, naturally, did not give two hoots or a holler whether or not it was a regular old deer or a favored pet of the Elf King himself. Her feet splayed, tense as a predator who had just spotted its prey. The stag was gone before the wolf had time to move, popping itself gracefully up and over the twelve yards of water. With its mighty spring, the animal knocked poor Bombur right to the ground and sent him rolling into the water with a splash.

The wolf was after it just as quick, any semblance of Orla's human sense now proving for all to see that she lost to the forest taint. Without a thought to Bombur, the beast leapt into the boat and then cast herself right off its bow. She cleared the enchanted water with mere centimeters to spare and was gone into the forest on the heels of the stag. Dwarves starred bewildered after her before clambering urgently for another rope, since the one they'd been using was currently floating uselessly beside an unmoving Bombur.

Kili faltered, looking back for the wolf, and it was not until his brother snatched him by the collar and shook him that he went to help with Bombur. "She'll be back," Fili assured him as they worked.

"She'll be lost in the forest!"

"She'll be back," Fili said again and left it at that.

.

* * *

**Part Two**

* * *

.

It should have been a well-known universal truth that forest spirits would not and simply _could_ not be captured by half-crazed skin-changers. The white stag had left the wolf to her exhaustion, outpacing the canine shortly after leaping the stream. Eventually, the wolf had lain down on her belly in the dirt, curled into a ball, and slept away all thoughts of stags and forest spirits.

It was with a splitting headache and aching muscles that Orla first awoke. Her eyes slipped open blearily and she was for once thankful for the dimness that surrounded her. One hand reached out to her side for the neighboring bed roll that she had grown accustomed to. The hand found nothing for damp dirt and forest trash in its search. Bilbo was nowhere to be found. Sitting up, Orla realized that no one else was anywhere to be seen either. She was utterly alone, the creaking of trees and unnamed creatures her only companions.

_Alone? Bother it all to the mountains and back again!_ She flopped bonelessly back down to the soft earth and permitted herself the indignity of releasing a wretched groan from a throat that had panted itself raw. She recalled the stag and the whispers that had urged her to give chase. Her mind tripped and tumbled through dusty corners and unpleasant nooks and crannies until she was finally able to picture the dwarves. There had been a boat and a stream, or rather _the_ stream that she had heard warnings about since her childhood. Had someone fallen in? She found she could not remember. _Not Bilbo,_ she prayed, _By Eru, not the hobbit!_ A second face flashed in her mind's eye and she took a moment to sigh inwardly once more for good measure. If that ridiculous, accident-prone, smarmy princeling had fallen in and she was not there to save him…Orla could not finish the thought for the knot hitched in her throat.

It was then decided that there would be no more time allotted to wallowing worthlessly on the ground, however much she might desire to, and that she would have to get going. It was not as if there was an abundance of comfort to be found anywhere nearby and there were dwarves and a hobbit to save so she really needed to be off anyway.

Had she not heard the tell-tale trickle of water, she was quite certain that she would have lived out the rest of her days lost in the woods of Mirkwood. Luckily, her nose had not led her far from the enchanted stream so that when she woke, skin dark with dirt and hair a mess of webs and moss, she was able to get her bearings with impressive quickness. She stood on unsteady legs, only to realize that she lacked any semblance of clothing.

_That won't do a'tall!_ She stretched out, readying herself to change, and stopped herself just short at the first sign of a whisper. It urged her, compelled and demanded her to proceed with the change.

_Perhaps for a little while…it will be easier than walking on bare feet._

Something fluttered nearby her head and her attention was torn suddenly from the sound of the stream. _Bats?_ She wondered. Bats were delicious!

_Only they aren't, actually_.

She shook her head to clear it of any sorry thoughts. There would be no more transforming for a while. The time she had spent as a wolf had done her some good in that it seemed to have eased the hold the wood's hold on her for the time being. She decided she best not turn again until she had better steeled herself against the whispers.

As she headed for the stream and in an effort to keep her mind free of blackened murmurs, she focused on thoughts of Rivendell and the mountains. She thought next of Grimbeorn and Estel. She even thought of her father and what he would say if he could see her now. No doubt he would have grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and carried her out days ago.

Orla found the stream after a short while, as she had not been far at all from it when she had awoke. It was a sure enough path to follow, even as she tiptoed her way deftly over roots and stones. It led her to what had been a bridge long ago. A boat bobbed a ways downstream, its wooden hull half rotted as a marker that it would soon sink and be forgotten. It occurred to her that Thorin and the others had been here when she had abandoned them. She could still smell them, could still see the imprints of wide, stout feet in the mud. They had not been too long passed, she thought as she knelt to trace her fingers over the tracks. That, at least, was a good sign.

Rubbing her eyes, Orla straightened and shook her head. _I shall just have to find them once more,_ she vowed, though she hoped they would not be too terribly angry with her when she did. She knew she had more than one dwarf to apologize to, even if she couldn't remember which ones exactly at the moment.

Fearful of staying still for too long unarmed and as utterly unarmored as it was possible for one to be, Orla proceeded along the path in the dwarves' footsteps. She forced herself to count her steps, her lips moving silently, so as to have something other to occupy her than thoughts of paws and teeth. It was only when her bare feet started to bleed that the whispers had any success at creeping back in.

The sounds were prettier than they had been before, not so unlike the rustle of leaves on the wind or the whispered scrapes of a branch at a window. The forest and its magic cooed in her ear, reminding her of how cold she was and how hungry and sore she felt and how easily it could all be remedied. Stumbling, Orla nearly hit her knees before staggering back up again. The dwarves had a good head start on her and if she faltered now, she knew she would never find them again. She would never see the sun again, never see her family, never see Kili's rakish smile or Bilbo's friendly one.

She recalled having promised Gandalf once that she would look over the dwarves. She had done so; she had gone above and beyond that which was expected of her because she'd had to do so for all the trouble caused by trolls and wargs and rivers. She would do the same once more. Only this time, she pressed on because she _needed_ to. She needed to make sure they were safe - that Kili and Bilbo and the others were all safe. She needed them to see that she had not abandoned them. But perhaps most importantly and for the first time, Orla realized that she just needed to see two of them in particular at least one more time.

.

* * *

.

The dwarves sat for a long time, half from exhaustion at having to hoist poor, fat, peacefully sleeping Bombur out of the water and half from despair – despair at having lost their guide, at having lost a member, and at having no choice but to push forward anyway. Needless to say, there was no cheer at camp that night or for days after. The gloom gathered closer around them, sitting ominously at their shoulders and choking round their necks like a velvet noose. They had crossed the enchanted stream but, for all they knew, were no nearer to freedom.

Four long days passed and Bombur showed no sign of waking nor Orla a sign of returning. Without the wolf-woman, they had no way of knowing that they had actually passed into the eastern half of the woods and were drawing ever closer to the edge. But there in that eastern part of the forest dwelled beings they had no desire to encounter – beings whose teasing, taunting laughter had started to drift eerily through the dense treeline. The laughter came after a few days to be accompanied by songs. They were beautiful, faraway songs and not at all the sort that came from goblins. But those songs and that laughter brought the dwarves no comfort, unnerving them to no end and sitting their teeth to grinding.

Two more days of darkness and songs passed before Thorin drew them all to an abrupt stop. Fili, Kili, Bifur, and Bofur all let go of Bombur with relieved sighs, letting the heavy dwarf down with as much gentleness as their tired muscles could muster. Bombur was none the wiser for their effort, his rosy cheeks dimpled with a content smile in his slumber.

"I'll go no further 'til I've a direction," Thorin announced, hooking his thumbs through his belt wearily. "Burglar!"

He called out to a despondent Bilbo and said, "Mr. Baggins, climb a tree and see if you can't get your head above the copse for a look around."

Bilbo had never been much good at climbing trees – most hobbits weren't – and he found himself wishing desperately and unashamedly for Orla. But Orla was not with them so he would have to try regardless. Thorin helped him pick out what looked to be the tallest tree nearby and then boosted him up to the first limb. It took the halfling a while and was no easy task, with his breastcoat snagging here and there and his fingers getting tangled unpleasantly in spider webs, but he reached the top nonetheless. Sticking his head out through the very top of the canopy, he was very nearly blinded by what he saw. The sun in all its golden, gleaming glory was high above his head. A breeze of fresh air rustled the tree tops and caught his hair. He took a breath, followed by another, until he had rid his lungs of the foul smelling dank he'd been breathing for days and days.

It was only after a lengthy protest from the dwarves down below that Bilbo remembered his actual business. The climb, it seemed, had been of little good, for try as he might he could not make out any end to the sea of trees. As it was, Orla was not there to explain to him that all was not as lost as he thought it was. Without her, Bilbo after all, had no way of knowing that the six days travel from the stream had put them in what was actually the basin of a valley with trees rising up on all sides like the rim of a bowl. Had he been at the top of the valley rather than down in it and had Orla been there to tell him as much, he would have known that they were not very far at all from the edge of the forest. Bilbo, however, did not know any of this and he climbed miserably back down to give a miserable report to dwarves who were soon as miserable as he was.

Another two days saw Bombur awaken. He sat up suddenly, jerking out of Dwalin's and Balin's grips so that they dropped him shoulders first onto the damp ground. Whatever sort of enchantment had taken hold over him had left him bereft of any memories since they had all left Bag End back in May. He told them all the wonderful dreams he had been having – dreams of food and dancing and elves. Thorin hushed him quickly and after berating him for a suitably long while, instructed Bombur to cease and desist his lazing so that they might all get a move on. Bombur, to the surprise of all, politely, though staunchly, refused.

"I shall sit right here," he said, "and go back to sleep."

Thorin was left with little time for rage and indignancy, as Balin suddenly cried out. "There! A light! Did ye see it, lads? Through the trees?"

Sure enough, they all looked and the twinkle flickered again, seeming like garnets in a wall of coal. Thorin and Company were understandably curious, even though dwarves are generally not curious as a rule, and they were soon clambering up and over one another to get after the mysterious light.

.

* * *

.

Since joining Thorin and Company, Bilbo Baggins had had many miserable moments. However, the moment which he found himself alone and in the dark without a single dwarf for company was most definitely and inarguably at the top of his list. Half the night they had been up chasing fires to and fro and then there had been some elves, the fires had suddenly gone out, and after that Bilbo wasn't quite sure. All he knew was that he had called out and no one had answered.

Understandably, this had all been quite stressful for Bilbo, so when he had gotten the chance to close his eyes and think for a moment, he had dosed right off into sleep. Waking up, he found himself a little more miserable and quite a bit more alarmed. He was half-wrapped in something wet and sticky from his feet up to his hips. He knew good and well that he should scream but somehow he managed to decide against it and set to wriggling instead. No doubt, if he screamed then the spiders that had trapped him so rudely while he slept would likely come back to finish the job while he was awake.

It took some maneuvering but Bilbo managed to free his sword from its sheath and cut himself loose without further ado. This all happened just in time for a spider to creep out from the bushes and see him. Bilbo gave a cry and the spider did something that could be equated as the same before lunging at the hobbit. He had seen enough sword fights by now to know that he really ought to hold his sword up at least, so he did. Fortunately, it proved to be just the right thing to do, as the spider impaled itself on the little blade and Bilbo yanked it free before bringing it back down into the spider's head.

He felt quite brave afterwards, if not a bit squeamish. All feelings aside, he knew he had to look for the others so he set about doing so. Following the milky path of webs as they thickened on through the trees, he crept right along in silence. He had slipped on the little gold ring after escaping the first spider, for he did not wish to be discovered by any its brethren, and he was all at once thankful that he'd found the ring in the first place.

He did not have far to go before he came across another group of the huge, horrible spiders and he ducked behind a tree before they could see him. Like the goblins in the mountains and trolls before them, the spiders seemed fond of passing their undoubtedly excessive spare time with diabolical conversation. It was through their hissed and whispered words that Bilbo discovered for certain that the awful creatures had indeed captured his friends.

They spoke for a while about eating the dwarves and whether or not they should store some away for later. They argued just as all rational spiders do about how long the dwarves should hang upside down or if doing so might ruin them. All the while, Bilbo sat and trembled, thoroughly disturbed by the talk of eating dwarves and knowing full well that he would have nightmares about the conversation he'd just overheard for the rest of his life. Peeking around the edge of his tree, he watched with saucer eyes as one particularly juicy spider crept up and along its web to wrap all eight legs around one wriggling bundle of dwarf. Twelve other bodies hung suspended from neighboring branches, unmoving.

"This 'uns still moving," the arachnid hissed as it gave the captured dwarf, who had been wrapped from head to toe, a rough pinch.

"Kill 'im then," said another. "Drop 'im on 'is head."

Now, Bilbo knew good and well that he really should not let that happen. Invisible, he slipped from round the tree and thought quickly of the best plan he could.

The spiders, for all their many eyes, did not see hide nor hair of the hobbit as he approached. One of them was too busy chewing at the webbing that kept the squirming dwarf attached to the limb and Bilbo decided he best hurry lest he be too late to prevent his companion from being dropped like a sack of potatoes. He knew he still had Orla's bow and six arrows strapped to his back but after a little more thought he remembered that he really had no idea how to use them. Mind swirling about like clothes in the wash, he looked around for anything that might help. He's eyes landed on some stones that lay near his feet; they were black and shiny and just the right size for throwing. He gathered up a few, as many as he could, and just before the spider had finished gnawing through its web, he reared back and threw.

The rock popped across the spider's head and down the creature dropped, landing on its back. More stones were tossed and soon the spiders were in a frenzy, skittering to and fro and hissing to one another to find whatever spirit was throwing rocks at them. Of course, being the ever conscious sort in regards to potential calamities, Mr. Baggins knew it was no good just to get the spiders stirred up and angry so off he took back the way he came, throwing stones and singing to beat the band. It worked plenty well to draw the spiders away but all too soon he found that he had run out of places to flee and was all of a sudden surrounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orla was much more wolfish in this chapter than before but that's just what my imagination said would happen if a Beorning/dual-natured person encountered the Necromancer's taint.
> 
> As always, thanks for the support!


	20. Pick Yer Poison

There were few things Bilbo Baggins of Bag End disliked more than spiders. He didn't like them in his cupboards, he didn't like them in his closets or kitchen or sitting room. He certainly did not care for them when they were twice his size and laughing at him.

The hobbit did not want to think about the fact that he was surrounded. He still wore the little gold ring and as a result, remained handily invisible. It did not really matter, however, for he had nowhere to go with spiders and thick, sticky webs on all sides. He squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest of moments and took the quickest of breaths, steadying both himself and the little sword at his hip. He had never so desperately wished for courage, at least not since the mountains, which he supposed had not been all that long ago.

He couldn't very well go about letting the dwarves get eaten by spiders, as they had been relatively good to him and that would be no way of going about returning the favor. Which in turn meant he couldn't really just stay still and wait for the spiders to scuttle back to their nests. So it was that without further ado Bilbo decided to pretend as best he could that he _was_ brave. He readied himself to leap on the count of three, bracing himself to draw Sting from its sheath and set to work on the spiders. He had only made it two and a half when he heard the earsplitting screech of a spider and the guttural snarl that ensued.

A spider, an ugly red and black one, came tumbling belly first from the underbrush all of a sudden, a dirty brown blur attached to it at the base of its head. The scuffle that followed was a gory one, mostly on the end of the spider, for which Bilbo felt no real pity. Dark goo flew every which way, slung by the jaws of a seemingly rabid and extraordinarily perturbed wolf.

It was with a great hurrah that Mr. Baggins greeted Orla. Seeming pleased with her finished work on the spider, the wolf looked in Bilbo's direction before bounding off to tackle another insect in flurry of claws and gnashing teeth. Bilbo took to stabbing and hacking where he could, the remaining troop of spiders having been sent into a raucous upset by the appearance of the wolf. The invisible hobbit popped in and out amidst the spiders like a miniature ghost.

The fight was a long one, even as Orla's pent up aggression and frustration was unleashed upon spiders who had unwisely decided to bundle up her companions and friends. The growls coming from her grew increasingly ferocious, far more so than any Bilbo had heard her make before, and the way which she snapped and tore at legs and eyes was alarmingly merciless. It was not until the remaining spiders had beat a hasty retreat that the wolf finally rested her jaws.

Amidst the carnage, she tossed her head back and sniffed the air. Nearby, Bilbo was surprised to find himself hesitant to remove his ring. He did not know what sort of awful tricks the forest had played on the inner wolf of the woman he had come to trust, though he was certain that Orla as she had been would never hurt him.

In the end, it took only a little less bravery to pull the ring off his finger than it had taken to confront the spiders. For a moment, Bilbo stood unmoving, not so much as drawing breath, while the wolf turned to face him. She made a gruff sound from deep in her chest and started towards him. He flinched despite himself, remembering the way that this same creature had nearly attacked Dwalin.

The wolf did not miss the movement, however small, and she froze with sudden timidity. Her fair head, covered in ooze, went down to the ground and she whined. She sat then and looked to Bilbo expectantly, her head tilted and ears twitching. Try as he might, he could not squint hard enough to make out the look in the wolf's eyes under the dim light. It occurred to him that she must have taken a seat so that he would be the one to approach her. Bilbo sighed, disappointed in himself. She had not meant to threaten him after all.

"Orla," he whispered, "are you…alright?"

Another whine and he was convinced that she was herself for the time being at least.

Scratching his head, Bilbo started again, this time considerably more cross, "We were all worried about you, so you know. Running off like you did! Thorin sent me up a tree even though I told him I wasn't much good at climbing. I thought we were lost and then sure enough we all got separated and you weren't there to help –"

He stopped himself when he saw the wolf lay down. She pressed her head against her paws and looked woefully up at him, content to suffer her scolding in silence.

It did not seem fair to reprimand her when she was not in the position to defend herself, not to mention she had just saved him from the spiders. So, Bilbo stowed away his fussing for another time.

"Blast!" he cried, suddenly remembering the dwarves, "We best go back and get Thorin and the others. I can't imagine the headaches they'll all have when we turn them right side up."

He took off but stopped when the wolf grunted to call him back.

"What is it?"

She sat up and trotted over to him, nosing through his pockets and beneath his bag. Her teeth clacked against the buckle and she started to tug, nearly pulling Bilbo over in the process. Curious, he thought to himself, _Whatever does she want?_ He sat the leather pack down and thought for a moment, questioning why she didn't just change back into her usual self and ask him for whatever it was she was after. It took him a moment but he figured out why soon enough. The last time he had seen Orla, she had stripped down to nothing but bare skin. Her clothes were still tucked in his bag. Cheeks flushing, Bilbo stammered a quick apology before yanking open the buckle and withdrawing from his bag Orla's jacket and pants. A mithril shirt – which Bilbo had admired briefly before tucking it away - and grey cotton doublet came out next, along with her boots and a pair of grungy socks.

"I'll…erm, I'll go ahead and leave you to it." The hobbit started off toward the spiders' nest but paused for a moment to look back at the wolf, who was looking appreciatively down at the pile of clothes. Lips quirked in hopeful half-smile, he added, "Just don't go running off again, if you please."

.

* * *

.

Orla stretched out her tired muscles and flexed her shoulders and arms, wincing as the joints popped and cracked. Bilbo had just disappeared from sight and she had rid herself of fur and paws as soon as she was able. It had been just in time, for her head had been spinning in an effort to keep her mind separate from the wolf's. Chewing on spiders had not been appetizing but, much like the romp after the white stag, it had been therapeutic. The whispers of the forest had been her only companions for the days she had spent tracking Thorin and Company. It had taken every ounce of will power she had in her to resist them. She had lost herself in daydreams and when that failed, she had started sing. She was not one for speaking and certainly not one for song but the desire to keep the headaches and voices at bay had surpassed any reservations. Over and over she had sang in hushed tones songs that fellow travelers had taught her over the years until eventually her voice grew hoarse. When that, too, had failed, she had focused on the pain throbbing in her naked feet and limbs, promising herself that she could attend to it just as soon as she found the dwarves and not before.

As it was, looking down at the pile of clothes, she was most grateful for the sight of her worn pair of boots, beat up and made of blackened leather. Blood had clotted in the raw gashes beneath her feet and the soft soles would be a welcome alleviation. She would limp for days, of that she had no doubt, but it would a glorious limp and she would be stronger for it.

With a groan she reached down and picked up the once clean cotton shirt. She blushed a mighty shade of crimson, recalling how she had stripped it from her body for all to see as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. The previously cream-colored cotton was dirtied beyond all hope and would do her little good in regards to warmth so she balled it up and set it to use as a rag, running it up and down her body to rid herself of what grime and goo she could scrape off. Tossing the shirt aside, she dressed quickly. The doublet went over the mithril shirt, its cool metal chainwork chilly against her bare flesh. And the socks and boots - for those, Orla whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to any spirits that might be listening.

Once dressed, the woman hobbled after Bilbo. She found him with his head tilted back to look up at the twelve dangling bodies above their heads. One in particular was swaying precariously on a thin bit of webbing. Orla and Bilbo realized at the same time that the dwarf, whichever one it was, was about to come down. They rushed forward but it did little good for the webbing snapped and the dwarf hit the forest floor with a hard _whoomp._

"Oh, confusticated spiders and their webs! Best we see who that is and make sure he's set to rights," Bilbo suggested, running his hands tiredly over his eyes.

He started towards the fallen dwarf but was jerked to a stop when Orla grabbed hold of his shoulder. When he looked back at her, she waved her hand at the other dwarves.

_Hurry._ She drew her little dagger and gestured with it. _Go cut them loose._

Bilbo nodded and off he scuttled. Meanwhile, Orla knelt beside the body on the ground and pressed her hands against the still sticky spider silk for the best place to insert the knife without jabbing the dwarf. She settled on the space between his feet and set to work. She had not cut very far when she realized who it was, and the new knowledge urged her to shimmy the blade faster until she was able to rip open the threads with her hands. Drawing back the pearlescent shroud, she found herself staring down at the pale and unmoving face of the youngest Durin prince.

" _Kili_ ," she did not realize at first that she had said his name aloud. One outstretched hand traced along the dwarf's cool cheek before suddenly drawing back and slamming back against the skin with a resounding slap.

_Eyes open, dwarf,_ she willed him. When he did not respond, she gripped his shoulders and shook him. There was no response awaiting her, not so much as the flutter of eyelids. Her insides tightened in her stomach, fear pitting her like a ripe peach. Before this moment, she would not have thought she might feel such distress at seeing the prince unmoving before her but the tightness began to spread throughout the rest of her limbs until she found herself clenching his shoulders hard enough to bruise the solid muscles beneath her fingers.

Reaching for his face again, Orla patted his cheeks in an increasing panic, urging him to open his eyes and see the world, to see _her_. She had _not_ dragged his sorry hide from the rapids of the Bruinen to lose him to some spiders when she wasn't looking. She had _not_ taken an arrow for him so that he later could be dropped on his head like a baby in swaddling clothes.

Silently, she pleaded with him. _Wake up. It is not yet your time, Kili!_

Head snapping up, she spotted Bilbo a few yards away, his feet dangling precariously from a limb as he used Sting to cut loose another dwarf. For a moment she wanted to call out to him for help but common sense caused her to hold her tongue, much to her own consternation, knowing that there was little Bilbo could do to help. Instead, she returned her attentions to Kili, sending her hands to his wrists to check for any sign of a pulse. A single beat beneath her fingers, like dying candle in a black room, and then there was nothing, no echo to reassure her there the dwarf's heart might still be pumping. The tightness in her gut grew suddenly cold, an invisible hand wrenching hard around her belly.

Orla leaned down and let her cheek hover just above the dwarf's lips. Breath held, she waited for the faintest brushing of breath against her skin or the slight draw and pull of air as it was sucked in for a breath.

She got both and then some.

Though Kili's voice and breath were weak, she heard and felt them both, heaving a sigh of relief as his lips moved just beneath her cheek. He murmured words too soft to hear but when she turned her face to him she saw him grinning drowsily up at her, like a man half held in a dream. Too caught up in the reprieve from dread, she did not notice at first when the dwarf's fingers closed round one of her hands.

_You're alright,_ she smiled, _thank Eru, you're alright._

She saw his lips move again but heard nothing from him. With a free hand she brushed aside the matted hair that had been stuck to his lips and leaned down so that she could better listen to him.

For all that he was suffering from spider venom, his behavior was partly a charade, as Orla would realize later, because there was not another dwarf alive who knew better than Kili how to lure a woman's sympathies. No sooner had Orla leaned down with the intent of listening to what she thought would be his delirious whispers than Kili struggled up, took the long-awaited opportunity presented to him, and caught her poised and waiting lips with his own.

The human woman had no time to utter so much as a squeak before Kili deftly captured her bottom lip to keep her from escaping, worrying at it with all his considerable skill before turning the rosy flesh loose with pop that echoed in both their ears.

At that point, he could have won a battle single-handedly or slain a dragon in a single shot and his grin would have been no more triumphant than the one currently spreading across his face.

"Kissing pretty girls always gets the blood goin'," he said as he straightened up from his spot on the ground. "Much obliged, milady."

Orla, for her part, had yet to move. When she heard his words though and saw his smile, she shook herself from the stupor she had been rendered into and shoved the young lothario back down before scrambling to her feet and stomping off to free the dwarves Bilbo had dropped.

Kili chuckled after her and made to stand. He might have been strong enough to muster a kiss but he couldn't yet keep his feet under him and plopped back down gracelessly, calling after the woman, "Fair enough, Orla! But in truth, I think I might be poisoned. Orla?" When she did not turn back around, he tried again. " _Orla_?"

In the end, it was Bilbo who came to help to him while Orla busied herself attending everyone and anything else.

.

* * *

.

"Thank Mahal, the two of ye came along when ye did! Nothing like being turned upside down and hung like skinned sow to make an ol' dwarf feel useless."

Balin spoke with genuine graciousness, his eyes free of judgment as they watched the young woman work at patching up Bofur's bloodied arm. She glanced up long enough to give him a shy smile before finishing up Bofur's mending and turning the miner loose. Nearby, Bilbo and Fili were just finishing cutting free a squirming Ori. Some dwarves fared better than others; some had yet to awaken and some were weak with the venom that had rendered them unconscious. A few of them had put up a fight before being captured and had the injuries to show for it.

"Thank ye, lass," Bofur told the woman as she stood from his side. "And I second yer opinion if it's any consolation, Balin."

Orla heard the old dwarf grunt his appreciation as she moved on to the next dwarf in need. Her steps were stiff, feet hitching every yard or so to pause for a moment before she moved on. She did not notice the eyes that followed her as she moved and did not see the way they narrowed worriedly in her direction. In fact, she kept her back turned pointedly away from the owner of those eyes as she crouched gingerly down next to Nori. The thief scowled at her and no sooner had Orla reached for him than he shook her away.

Eyes accusing, Nori bit off, "I won't be needing any help from you, wolf."

Orla sighed and sat back. She looked at the dwarf's hand, which was the bloodiest part on him, and motioned carefully at it.

"You're the one did it. Be damned if you're the one to patch it up."

The surprise that registered across Orla's face at his words was so apparent that Nori himself was not so blind with anger to miss it. If she had been the one to nearly bite his finger off, she did not seem to recall. Trying once more, Orla reached for the wounded appendage and this time the thief begrudgingly let her. Sure enough, it was a bite mark and unfortunately not the sort that came from spiders. Sharp canines had left a clear imprint against the palm and backside of Nori's hand.

Shame flooded Orla's eyes and she could not help but look away, glad that the burning in her cheeks was hidden beneath the forest's sheath of black. Her lips opened and closed a few times over before in a voice ever so soft, she whispered, "I am sorry, Nori. Truly, a month ago I would not have thought myself capable and yet here we are, and the fault is mine all the same."

She did not want to see the thief's eyes as she proceeded to wrap his wounded hand, carefully tying up the slack finger. When she had finished, she gave his good hand a warm squeeze before readying herself to move on.

She did not expect him to call her back. When he did, she looked down at him, doing her best to hold his gaze.

"I suppose," Nori mumbled, "since you went to all the trouble of speaking to me, that I'll let bygones be bygones this time."

Her lips quirked up in thanks and she turned away. She only had time to treat one more dwarf before someone realized that the group was one King Under the Mountain short. Dwalin's voice boomed out across the recovering company as he noted in rather colorful language that Thorin was not among them.

It was then that Bilbo looked to Orla and Orla to Bilbo.

"I haven't seen him!" the hobbit told them all. "He must not have been taken by the spiders."

"When's the last anyone saw him?" Balin asked.

A wave of shrugs and uncertain murmurs went round before someone finally said, "He was there last we saw that light."

_Light?_ Orla nudged the hobbit. _What sort of light?_

The hobbit went on to explain how they had been drawn from the path the night before by the appearance of lights in distance. He claimed that they had believed it to be the flickering of a campfire and just when they had all gotten close, the light had disappeared and moved on again.

"Led us on a merry chase and into this mess," Bilbo concluded.

All through the halfling's explanation, Orla had remained suspiciously quiet, her head lowered into one hand while her fingers worked at the bridge of her nose.

"That mean anything to you, miss Orla?" Dori asked hopefully.

Someone else piped up, "You don't think Thorin was taken by forest spirits, do you? Are there such things as forest spirits that go round snatching kings-to-be in the dark of night?"

Orla merely shook her head. _No, no forest spirits this time._ She had suspected that there might be trouble once Thorin and his group had passed into the eastern half of Mirkwood. What had been her hope was that Thorin might have had the good sense to keep his people quiet so that they might slip through this part of the forest unnoticed. Instead, in their desperation they had been lured in by the tricks of elves.

As a rule, Orla was generally respectful of elves, sometimes going so far as to even like them. But that rule did not apply to the Wood Elves of Mirkwood, for one of them had slighted her in her childhood and she had not brought herself to forgive them yet despite all her good nature. It was a fact of which she was not particularly proud, but a fact nonetheless. She had never met one of Thranduil's kin whom she liked and she doubted she ever would.

She sighed and raised her eyes to meet Balin's, giving him weary look that he interpreted as meaning one thing and thing only.

"Oh, lass, tell me ye don't mean that stone-cursed Thranduil's got hold of him?"

The wolf-woman only nodded.

.

* * *

.

It was decided that the group would wait for first light and what little illumination was brought with it before sitting after their king and leader. It would take that long at least for the poison in some of them to wear off and the others to gather their strength.

Kili, unfortunately, was one of poisoned ones and as such he was rendered relatively useless for most of the night. As he rested, his thoughts fell on two entirely different subjects, one pleasant and one markedly less so. The thought of elves having captured his uncle had him running a whet stone over his sword and restringing his bow. Kili had never fought elves before and while he did not necessarily hate them as some of his elders did, he had been raised not to trust them any farther than he might throw their double-crossing, tightly clad elvish asses.

On the other hand, he had stolen a kiss from Orla and that thought alone kept him from being too terribly angry. He watched her from across camp as she finally sat down for a rest. She pulled her boots off with a wince and though it was too dark for Kili to see clearly the extent to which her feet were mangled, he heard the sharp intake of breath she made from across the distance. For a while she tended her own wounds until Bofur sidled up beside her and asked how she fared.

Kili watched thoughtfully as her small shoulders rose and fell in response to the miner's question. No doubt Bofur was referring less to Orla's feet and more to the trouble she'd had since entering the forest. Orla gestured to her temple and shrugged once more. Headaches, then, Kili surmised. He wished he could do something about them but he had neither the medicinal skill nor the know-how to help her. Instead, he pushed himself up on unsteady feet and dragged himself slowly over to where Bofur and Orla sat.

From the look she gave him, he suspected she would have bolted before he'd had the chance to set down if she'd had her boots on. Kili grinned at that, happy in the knowledge that she found him so overwhelmingly charming that she could hardly stand to be around him.

"How goes it, Bofur?" the young dwarf asked as he settled down.

The miner took a long pull from his pipe and replied, "Oh, well enough now that the spiders have gone on their way."

Kili chuckled, "Aye, true enough."

Orla had since gone back to mending her feet and was not looking at either Bofur or Kili any longer.

Kili bumped her shoulder gently and inquired, "What happened, love?"

Eyes sharp as dwarven steel, Orla turned to glare at him briefly. _I walked - rather a lot._

Beside them, Bofur laughed and leveled on them both an all too knowing grin. "It's a merciless world we live in that has no streams for a pretty lady to wash 'er feet in. I'd tell the lad to lend you his flask but I doubt he's saved a drop."

Orla snorted in agreement but did not look up again.

Heaving a suffering breath, Kili called out to his brother. "Oy, Fili! Have you any brandy left?"

"A bit. Why?"

"Toss it here."

Fili grumbled but did as his little brother asked, reaching into his pockets and chucking the deerskin flask. As he did, he said, "You might be better served by fletching some arrows than drinking, brother. You'll need them if you plan on making pin cushions out of those elves."

Kili waved a dismissive hand at his brother and handed the nearly empty flask to Orla. "There's not much," he told her gently, "But it'll help clean those cuts."

Orla hesitated before accepting the brandy, her fingers careful not to touch Kili's as she took the flask from him. Using a rag she had scrounged up from somewhere, she tipped the flask up just enough to wet the corner and set to work cleaning the soles of her feet. When she had done all she could, she pulled her socks and boots back on with a contented sigh.

By this point, Bofur had dozed off on his side and Orla said nothing to him or Kili as she got quietly to her feet. She looked around, no doubt for Fili, and when she did not spot him right away, Kili supplied, "He's with Dwalin. Strategizin' and overthinkin' everything that comes to mind, no doubt."

One brow cocked as Orla looked down. _Oughtn't you be doing the same?_

"I'm more of a 'heat of the moment' type," Kili grinned.

_I had noticed._ Orla just barely managed to restrain the twitching at the corners of her mouth.

Kili said nothing else and let her go about her business, which mostly involved tossing Fili's flask at him followed by a solitary retreat to the edge of camp. With nothing else to do, he got up with sigh and went over to join his brother and Dwalin. They had not been plotting for long before their ears caught the near silent pad of footsteps behind them. A fourth figure had come to join them, her slender form slipping between the brothers to lay near the youngest. Her pale head propped itself against Kili's knee, her eyes flicking up to beg him not to say so much as a word. He did not, and this time when his hand came to rest gently at her neck, the wolf uttered not a sound.


	21. Into the Belly of the Beast

For Orla, the next day was plagued by headaches and complaints of elves. It had been a mistake on her part to change her shape for sake of skulking at Kili's side the night before but even as she fought to ignore the resulting pulsing in her brain, she found she did not regret it. She paid the price now, unfortunately, as she led the troop of dwarves farther into Thranduil's lands. She wished desperately that they would be quiet but no amount of glares or shushing could settle them. Whatever plan Dwalin and Fili had come up with would be ruined before there was even a chance to spring it.

The ambush happened exactly as Orla feared it would, as one moment they were marching along and the next two dozen elves had sprung from the trees with their bows drawn. Orla might have been impressed that they had managed to approach without her noticing if, for one, her mind had not been a snarl of distractedness and two, if she ever thought there was anything at all to be impressed with wood elves about.

As it was, she was in no mood to humor anyone regardless of how pointy their ears were and when she glanced back to see an arrow pressed against the tip of her hobbit's nose there was little she could do to help herself. Whatever control she had managed to build up disintegrated in an instant. There was no chance to sing any happy songs or think pleasant thoughts before she was on all fours and snarling. Behind her, dwarves wavered between inching nervously nearer their attackers and grinning to themselves at the prospect of seeing the wolf chew off a pretty face.

The unlucky elf that found herself looking down her arrow at Orla's new form leapt back, a cry in elvish echoing through the trees. The wolf had no chance to lunge before three more bows filled the vacated position.

The company was, for all intents and purposes, good and surrounded.

With all thoughts of a fight gone from their minds, they did not put up much resistance when the elves demanded they come along and be taken prisoner quietly. Now, smart as elves tended to be, they did not pay much mind to it as the dwarves bunched up among one another. Neither did they see it when Bofur, who no doubt hoped the hobbit might make a miraculous escape as he had with the goblins, yanked Bilbo into the middle of the group and pushed him down to the ground so that the Halfling might hide.

So, hide Bilbo did, just long enough to slip his ring on his finger and disappear without so much as a single elf being any the wiser. It was just in time, too, as one elf stepped forward past all the others to issue orders for their hands to be bound and weapons confiscated. Certainly, had Orla been in any position to care, she would have no doubt envied the cleanly sheen of this elf's long fair hair and his admirably spot-free wardrobe.

As it was, with the appearance of this particular elf, the wolf went inexplicably bezerk. Plunging into a snarling rage, the wolf feinted to the side of one of the elves who had trained his bow on her before darting back with an animal quickness between the legs of another. She pounced before a single one had time to train an arrow back on her despite their elven reflexes.

When she hit the fair-haired elf square in the chest, he went down and so did her jaws, descending with frightening precision to his jugular. Elven curses broke through the air all around, loud enough that the leaves above their heads trembled. But the elf was quick and he threw the wolf off before she had a chance to rid him of his most vital airway. Tumbling head over tail the wolf slid to her feet little more than a yard away.

"Get 'im, beast!" Gloin shouted amidst the litany of elven voices.

Dwalin and even Balin seconded the motion as they cried, "Aye!" and "Tear the bastard to shreds!"

But the fair haired elf called something then to his guards, his sharp eyes having seen his comrades' unmistakable intakes of breath before a shot and, had the dwarves known better, they might have realized the elf had ordered the others to lower their bows. His order came at price, for in the brief instant he turned his head, the wolf charged once more.

Only this time, when the wolf leapt it was the woman who landed against the elf. Orla's slight but solid weight crashed into the elf's chest, sending him down while she tumbled and skittered to her feet. She was not upright for long before stumbling to her knees with both hands pressed hard to her temples. Whatever rage the taint had sent her into was now being battled back, her sides heaving in a pained push for control. Finally, she calmed. Yet there was no apology in her gaze when she turned her eyes on the elf, merely restraint. The wolf had recognized him, as did the woman, and it was obvious that neither was fond of him.

Orla paid no heed to the small battalion of wood elves who leveled their bows on her. She only continued to stare down the flawless creature in front of her, her dislike of him unimpaired by his beauty.

Getting gracefully to his feet, Legolas Thranduilion, son of the Elvenking, inclined his head ever so slightly before saying, "Peace, Beorning. Our quarrel is with these trespassers, not with you."

But the daughter of Beorn said nothing in response. She eventually ceased her scrutiny of him, turning her head from him as if he were a fly she might ignore on a hot day and not the Prince of Mirkwood. For all the woman's sudden calm, it did not escape the elf's keen eyes the way her small hands clenched and trembled at her side, vying to hold tight to whatever vestiges of control she maintained. Wordlessly, she slipped past the armed and poised elves to return to the sides of the waiting dwarves.

Legolas watched as she positioned herself at the dwarves' sides and then accepted her choice with a shake of his head.

"Very well, little wolf," he said, "You all shall go before the King."

.

* * *

.

It was no small task for Bilbo to keep up with dwarves and their elven captors as they marched through the forest and into the palace cave of the great Thranduil. Elves were so tall and their steps so long that the dwarves had trouble enough keeping up, let alone Bilbo, who all but had to run. Not to mention that elves had an uncanny sense about magic and the like, so Bilbo could not help but feel uneasy that one of the guards might somehow discover him despite his being invisible and scoop him up to be sent off to the dungeons or rose gardens or wherever it was that elves kept prisoners.

Thranduil's palace and its surrounding grounds would have been impressive if Bilbo had not visited Rivendell beforehand. But he _had_ seen the beauty of Imladris and as such, the dim forest grandeur left little impression on him other than instilling in him the desire to escape. It did not help Bilbo's nerves in the slightest that the wood elves apparently lived inside an immense cave rather than in the trees like all sensible forest-dwelling elves should. They were rather like goblins in that regard, he decided.

As he hurried along, he kept a close eye on Orla and the elf of whom she didn't seem too fond. Bilbo had been rather proud of Orla when she had gotten control of herself, yet he couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was a hair's breadth away from leaping at the elf again.

Bilbo managed to slip inside the palace on the heels of the last guard, nearly bumping into her when she stopped suddenly nudge Oin forward with the tip of her sword. The inner halls of the cave were not so deep underground as Bilbo had originally assumed and, while not nearly so homey as a hobbit hole, they were illuminated by torch-light. Eerie red and orange shadows danced about on the walls, bringing to life what sparse decoration there was so that the seemingly inanimate things twitched and flickered at the edges of Bilbo's vision. It was through a maze of corridors that Bilbo followed the group ahead of him until finally they emerged in the throne room.

The elf who Bilbo assumed was this Thranduil everyone kept mentioning sat at the far end of the room in a chair of elegantly, if not simply, carved birch wood. His hair was some of the longest and palest Bilbo had ever seen, and atop his golden head was a crown of leaves.

When he spoke, his voice was stern but neither cruel nor mocking, as Bilbo initially feared it might be. He instructed the dwarves to be unbound but not before reminding them that there would be no escaping.

The fair-haired elf who had led the prisoners through the halls bounded up to the king and, upon seeing them side by side, the hobbit gathered soon enough that they were kin.

Thranduil proceeded to question the dwarves until both his and their patience began to wear thin. They pleaded that they had only been lost in forest and made no mention of Thorin. It was not until Balin became angry beyond all sense and said in no uncertain terms that the elf-king kept for pets the giant spiders and that he may or may not have been overly amorous with them on occasion, that the Elf-king finally lost his patience.

"You," Thranduil said, his voice calm save for an edge that had not been present earlier, " _dwarves_ , will be locked away until it behooves you to speak to me of why you are in my lands."

He rose to his feet, his silver robes spreading about him like a mist. It was Orla who caught his gaze and Bilbo swallowed nervously, desperately hoping that she would not leap at him as she had his son.

"And you, woman?" the elf-king asked, "Why is it that you see familiar to me?"

From across the room Bilbo watched as Orla shifted nervously from foot to foot, her hands playing at the edges of her coat and her eyes flicking to the doors nearest her. To the hobbit it seemed as if she would like very much to be pacing rather than standing still, though whether it was the woman or the wolf who was uncomfortable with the prospect of being locked away, Bilbo was not certain.

When Orla said nothing immediately in response, it was elf whom she had attacked earlier whose voice gave a reply.

"Before you stands the daughter of the Chief of the Skin-changers, father," cool blue eyes fell on Orla, who remained visibly distracted.

A single dark brow arched elegantly and the king said, "One of the animal folk? Yes, I thought as much. Tell me, child, whatever possessed you to come through the Wood? To my knowledge, dwarves are not so beloved by your kin; I doubt they persuaded you through any honest means. Have they snatched from your home?"

Cries of denial rippled up through the throng of dwarves and Orla had no choice but to finally look at the elf-king.

Gently, she shook her head in denial of his claim.

"She defended them in the forest," Legolas spoke matter-of-factly, "Though perhaps her attack had more to do with myself than any love for these dwarves."

Bilbo had to stifle a snort at the prince's comment; he had no doubt that Orla would leap to defend any member of the company. It was not until he noticed Orla direct an uncharacteristic scowl at the elf who had spoken that he questioned if perhaps the prince's assumption was correct.

"Of what do you speak, Legolas? You know this woman?"

From her place between Bofur and Bombur, Orla gave a canine-sounding huff so loud the two dwarves turned to look curiously at her.

The edges of Legolas' lips turned up just enough to crease his porcelain skin and he answered, "We have crossed paths before, many years ago." Pausing less for a moment of thought and more for effect, he looked at Orla and added, "I recall the top of your head hardly being above my knees."

Whatever look Orla gave him, as Bilbo could not rightly see, caused the elf to chuckle as someone did when faced with the loser of a game.

"What sort o' lies is the elf tellin', girl? Does he slight ya'?" Oin asked before being hushed by someone nearby.

"Silence," Thranduil commanded. "Continue, Legolas."

With an acquiescent nod, Legolas did as he was bid. "I was scouting near the western edge of the forest when a young hart leapt into my path. Following at its heels was a wolf pup no larger than what I might hold with a single arm. Weary though I was, I did not believe it kind to allow the pup to shame herself by further pursuing the chase."

He smiled kindly at Orla, who scuffed her boot grumpily against the floor.

"The pup was in no mood for a stranger's kindness, however, and I had not made it step before she had chewed through the bowstring at my shoulder. I was left with little choice but to…stow her away until I had delivered her from the forest."

"Wait, ' _stow'_ you away?" Fili piped up suddenly, twisting his head around to look at Orla, "The elf put you in a _bag_?"

Staring like the devil lay at her feet, Orla made no attempt to refute the claim.

"She refused to hold still," Legolas explained, "And it was a game sack, as I recall."

Being a hobbit, Bilbo understood all about grudges. Some hobbits actually made a sport of holding grudges against one another, no matter how slight, and those grudges often carried over the generations until no one was alive to remember what precisely they were about. He supposed if someone had scooped him up as a child and dumped him into a game sack, he, too, might be inclined to feel mildly slighted. He shook his head in sympathy, although no one saw it since he was still safely out of sight. All the prince's story had achieved was to further his desire to help the dwarves escape from Thranduil's clutches, as no one deserved to be imprisoned by beings who went around sticking puppies into bags.

By the time Bilbo's attention came back to the matter at hand, Legolas had gone on to explain that he only realized the wolf pup to be one of the Beornings when Beorn himself had thundered up to tell him as much. No sooner had he freed the wolf from the sack had Orla turned back into a tow-headed little girl and burst promptly into tears.

Upon the story's conclusion, Thranduil ran a single long, white finger down his chin before offering a noncommittal, "I see." He thought for a while longer, fingers stilled and eyes leveled thoughtfully on the skin-changer.

Finally, he spoke. "You suffer from the sickness that plagues my realm, do you not?"

Even though Orla made no move to deny his words, he waved his hand delicately in a gesture of silence.

"There is no need to deny it, my senses tell me as much. As I do not wish a conflict with the guardian of our western border, I shall not imprison you alongside your companions, daughter of Beorn. Furthermore, before you go on your way, I shall see to it that your… _condition_ is attended to by one of our healers. Consider it recompense for the unfortunate judgment on the part of my son."

Had the elf-king wrapped Orla up with a bow and handed her to Bilbo, the burglar could not have been any more relieved. He would have help! At least he would if he somehow managed to get Orla from under the scrutiny of a palace full of elves. The dwarves as well seemed massively thankful, no doubt having considered themselves exactly what Bilbo had been thinking. Not a single dwarf raised their voice against the elf-king's decision, every last one of them content to have at least two free members of their company roaming about. In fact, the only thing that was said to Orla before two elves stepped up to escort her away was something whispered by Kili. Bilbo could not hear what the young dwarf said but he saw the quick squeeze the young dwarf gave to Orla's hand before she was whisked away.

.

* * *

.

Nearly four entire nights had gone by when Mr. Baggins finally tracked down the wolf-woman. She had been kept under tight lock and key, nearly as tight as the dwarves, and it was only by a chance crossing with one of the elven healers that Bilbo was able to find her. Of course, during these four days, Bilbo had not been idle, as he had managed to discover twelve of his thirteen dwarves. Thorin's whereabouts remained a mystery, one Bilbo had not yet figured out how to solve.

Regardless, he had Orla and that had to count for something. It was on the heels of the healer that Thorin and Company's burglar was able to flit like a shadow into Orla's room. She looked much better than she had the last time Bilbo had seen her, though there were lines in the creases of her eyes that had not been present before. Perhaps it was a trick of the light – for Bilbo hoped it was – but Orla's once bright, beautiful eyes were dark now, smoked charcoal where silver had shown before. Her face bore the still healing scars she had garnered over the past month. Teeth marks and cuts patchworked across her face, raised pink flesh amidst freckles on a once sunny complexion.

The hobbit watched as Orla offered the elf a half-hearted smile that went unreturned.

"How fare you today, Beorning?" The healer inquired as he bypassed Orla's bed in a swirl of fine cotton and rather flamboyantly colored robes.

The wolf-woman's shoulders rose and fell. She did not watch as the elf went over to a table laden with pretty vials and dried herbs to mix whatever concoction he planned to give her. Instead, her eyes fell on the shadowy corner of the room, her brows knitted together as she inhaled quietly. Bilbo knew when she had discovered him and it came as somewhat of a relief to know that he had not somehow faded from existence over the past few days but had yet to realize it himself. Lips twitching upward, Orla raised a hand to rub inconspicuously at her nose until the healer passed off a steaming cup of something that Bilbo could smell all the way in the corner.

Obediently, Orla drink it down, her features pulling into an awful twist before she handed the empty cup back to the healer. While all this was going on, Bilbo figured he best go stand by the door so that he could slip out after the elf. If he was quick enough and burglar-like enough, he hoped he might be able to snatch from the elf's pocket the room key so that he could let himself back in and Orla, likewise, back out. It would not do either of them any good, after all, if Bilbo should get locked in with his friend.

As expected, the elf wasted hardly a moment of his no doubt considerably free time to press his fair hand to Orla's chest before withdrawing it with a satisfied murmur to himself.

That same hand went to the healer's ear to smooth back a stray strand of white-blond hair that had sprang gracefully from his braid. Having primped sufficiently and clearly pleased with himself, the elf announced, "I shall inform Lord Thranduil that you are faring much better. Perhaps on the morrow or the next, you will be well enough recovered to return home."

The woman on the bed gave a slight nod before rolling over onto her side and pulling up the covers until a mass of freshly scrubbed curls was all that was to be seen of her. The healer only shook his head and turned to go, completely unaware of the shadow that followed him out the door. No sooner had the hobbit and the healer stepped past the threshold than a bump in the road appeared.

The aforementioned bump was tall and fair, and saddled with no small amount of regality.

Bilbo stifled a squeak of surprise and pressed himself back against the wall and out of the way of the two elves. The healer bowed his head low and spoke a greeting which Bilbo had no hope of understanding. Legolas, who Bilbo had made a point to avoid, responded to the healer in kind and asked his own question. As tempting as it was to try and pilfer the room key while the elves conversed, Bilbo dared not try it for fear that the Prince might spot the key before Bilbo could hide it away in his invisible pockets.

They did not speak for long before Legolas bid the healer to open the door so that he might speak with the patient. It was obviously not the best idea to sass with the king's son, so the healer slipped the key into Legolas' hand before departing with a few words and a finger waggling at the key. No sooner had the healer left than did Legolas turn round and unlock the door so that he might step inside.

Back into the room it was for poor Bilbo, who was awfully put out at having another of his plans go awry before he even got a chance to put it into motion. In after the prince he trailed, smiling merrily to himself when he saw Legolas place the key on a stand near the doorway. The moment when the elf turned his back, Bilbo grabbed the key and dropped it quick as a flash into his pocket.

"Orla," the prince greeted the resting woman with a genuine smile and voice loud enough to cause Bilbo to wince as he propped himself up near the door.

Flopping over unhappily, Orla greeted her least favorite elf with a scowl through eyes so narrowed Bilbo wondered if she could see at all. She pushed a mass of hair from her face and pulled her knees up as Legolas seated himself primly on the side of the bed.

"You appear much better!" Legolas continued, undeterred by the continuously darkening look directed at him. "Evrim claims the Necromancer's magic had taken a greater toll on you than we initially thought. I will see to it that your people are informed of the extent of its danger."

Orla's head fell back against her pillow and she sighed quietly. Bilbo suspected she had neither the energy nor the desire to set Legolas to rights in regard to her relationship with her father's people.

"My father remains curious as to why you were in the company of dwarves." It was not a direct question but an inquiry nonetheless.

From his corner, Bilbo smiled as Orla proceeded to wave her hands about animatedly and throw meaningful glances at the elf seated beside her. When she had finished, Legolas cleared his throat and ventured to guess. "You are their…guide?"

Orla nodded and resumed her frown.

"What business do they have in the forest?"

All he received was a head shake so vigorous it sent curls whipping out like cattails. For Bilbo, it translated into: _nothing nefarious._ Sure enough, the wide, innocent eyes that ensued – so out of place now against the darkened sockets in which they rested – reinforced the assertion.

"I see," the elf responded thoughtfully. "And other than the twelve dwarves we captured, how many were in the original company that you aided?"

Now, Bilbo knew that Orla knew that the elf was baiting her plain and simple. She had been present when the others had gone out of their way to make no mention of Thorin when Thranduil had questioned them. What neither Bilbo nor Orla knew was whether or not any of the dwarves had been pressured into telling their elven captors anything further. Both the hobbit and the skin-changer understood that in Legolas' simple question was an answer that would determine whether or not Orla actually went free. For if one of the dwarves had been broken and the elves knew that their company had for certain been thirteen rather than twelve, then Orla would be caught dead in a lie to protect them, incriminating and allying herself to Thorin Oakenshield.

Bilbo's breath hitched in his chest as he watched Orla level a steady gaze on the prince. Gone was the scowl and in its place was a visage so apparently honest Bilbo himself almost believed it.

_Only the twelve,_ Orla's gaze insisted, _I swear it._

Legolas said nothing for a long moment, his own eyes, infinitely young yet weighty, studying Orla until he finally stood from the bed and reached to place his hand against her shoulder.

"I must apologize for disturbing you, Lady Orla. It is just that your dwarves were not the first we came across in our woods." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving toward the door. It was there that he paused and turned back to her, saying, "We do not have the friendliest history, you and I, and I hope no greater detriment comes to it after your stay here. Have no doubt, I shall see you escorted safely to the edges of our land as soon as Evrim declares you fit for the journey."

With that, he turned to go, opening the door and nearly stepping through it. He stopped again and looked curiously to the little table by the door where he had placed Evrim's key. He did not find it of course, because it was no longer there. The elf's hands went to his pockets then and when he found nothing, he looked back at Orla.

"Lady, was there a key on this table?"

Orla shrugged noncommittally before sliding back down the bed and burrowing pitifully into the covers. _Go away, please,_ her eyes implored him. _See how very tired I am?_ She yawned big and wide and gave a great stretch for effect. _Woe is me, Legolas, for I must recover._

The Prince hesitated. "I…very well, then. There is no harm to be had from leaving the door unlocked when there is naught but a sick woman to be contained. Rest well, milady."

The door closed behind him, unlocked and just waiting to be sneaked out of. Bilbo sighed gratefully before tugging off his little gold ring and slipping it into his pocket.

"Oh, thank goodness and good riddance," the hobbit breathed. He padded over to Orla's bedside and had no sooner reached the edge than Orla was pulling him up beside her.

"But I'll dirty the duvet!" Bilbo protested, only to be waved off by Orla. She looked at him expectantly then so he got right down to telling her all about how he'd found twelve of the dwarves scattered about in different parts of the palace.

He paused when he felt her squeeze his hand gently. Looking at her, he saw her worrying at her bottom lip, the chapped flesh chewed to a bright red. Through narrowed, worried eyes, she coaxed an answer from him. _Kili?_

"Ah, yes. Kili's fine. As is Fili."

_Very well, then._ She gestured politely. _Continue, if you please._

"Well, I haven't yet found Thorin, you see. He's not with any of the others and they've seen neither hide nor hair of him."

Orla thought for a moment before apparently coming to some epiphany or another. Sure enough, it was not long before Bilbo was being crawled over and Orla dropped from the bed onto the cool stone floor. She smiled at him, though he did not find the same reassuring quality in it now as he had before. There was too much toothiness, too much wolfishness, and something else not quite right about it. It left him with a feeling that was not unlike getting one's coat back after someone else has had it on. Bilbo did not care for it, whatever it was. Regardless, he understood an " _I can help you"_ when it was offered. It was Orla after all - she would always help him.

Pilfering from his waistcoat the room key, she tucked the key into her own pocket, though she really only had one on the dressing gown she had been given and the weight of the key made the cloth sag awkwardly. Bilbo made to argue but she hushed him and instead reached to pull the covers over him. Placing a gentle hand on his cheek, she smiled down at him.

_Rest here for a while. You need it, little one. I'll lock the door behind me._

"I can't rest!" Bilbo argued just as the softness of the blankets began to demand he be good and get comfortable. Orla seemed to know exactly what he was thinking because she grinned one of her old grins then and shook her head. _Rest, Bilbo._

Yawning, Bilbo nodded. He hadn't really gotten much sleep the past few days, resting only when he was sure no one was likely to trip over his invisible form. It was rather a good thing he hadn't planned on arguing because by the time he opened his eyes again, Orla was gone and the door was locked safely behind her.

.

* * *

.

Wolves can be quiet, sneaky creatures when they really want to be and Orla, for one, had made a lifestyle out of being quieter than most. Nonetheless, it was not easy slipping through the vast halls of Thranduil's palace unnoticed. The natural shadows of its underground setting were a blessing though, as were all the nooks and crannies and helpful hiding spots along the way. Tracking a scent through miles and miles of stone and rock, however, was a less simple task. The wolf had slipped back to the main hall and had sniffed around for a good long while before catching wind of the musky, piney smell of the elusive Prisoner Under the Mountain. Once she had it, her problem remained nevertheless. Following it was nigh impossible for the trail was old; what the wolf had learned, however, was that elves smelled of flowers and air and sweet things and dwarves, most certainly, did not. It was by process of elimination that the wolf decided to track the most out of place smell.

It was also no small blessing that there happened to be very few elves about at the moment. Most of them were gone it seemed, though for what purpose, Orla did not know. She hurried regardless, as she really needed to be back to Bilbo before that ridiculous healer returned with a spare key and unlocked the door. From the throne room, the wolf went east, heading ever deeper into the cave and far away from any comforts. She prowled about, nose to the ground, until she finally reached a set of steps leading downward into a place so dark not even the wolf's keen eyes could see. This seemed right, both the animal and woman's minds agreed, for that odd, misplaced smell went down this way.

Thorin was down there, hopefully waiting in his cell and not stretched out on a rack. Orla did not actually know if most elves used racks but wood elves, well, she would not put anything past a people that stuffed poor children into bags for no trespass greater than popping bow strings. No matter her desire to find the missing dwarf, neither the wolf nor the woman had any hope of getting past however many guards waited at the bottom of those steps. So it was that the wolf slinked back the way she came. Now that she had tracked down Thorin, it would be up to Bilbo do the rest.

.

* * *

.

Before the hour was up, Orla had returned to her room to find her hobbit sleeping soundly as a baby. It pained her to wake him but she did so out of necessity, for the healer, Evrim, would be coming around soon to check on her.

Bilbo got up reluctantly. Though the dark blue bags under his eyes had not lessened during his brief rest, his spirit brightened when Orla told him of Thorin's suspected whereabouts.

"East from the throne room," she whispered hoarsely, "deeper into the caves."

"Were there very many guards about?" he asked, fidgeting with his little gold ring.

Orla shook her head as she climbed back into the bed Bilbo had vacated.

"Hmm," the hobbit murmured to himself, "They've been speaking of a feast or some such event for the past few days. Perhaps they're off preparing? A party does sound wonderful."

Though Orla said nothing in response, the hobbit looked to her expectantly as if she should second his idea. A single roll of her shoulders was all he received.

The halfling huffed loudly, although he could not bring himself to be too put off by her sudden unhelpfulness. She had just tracked Thorin down for him after all, something for which Bilbo was ever so grateful, as he had no desire to roam about Thranduil's hall for many days more. Instead, the hobbit smiled as warmly as he could at her and dipped his head in farewell.

"I'll come back for you," he told her, "when I have a plan."

Orla shook her head. _Get the dwarves out._

"But Orla –"

The woman's brows dropped low over her eyes in an expression so stern, Bilbo wondered if perhaps she had spent entirely too much time with Thorin. _I'll be fine. Free those dunderheads first._

"But the elves!" Bilbo protested. "They'll take you away soon!"

Softly, she responded, "Look for me in Lake Town."

"Oh! But the dwarves will be awfully cross if you don't come along! However shall I find you again if I lose you?"

Reaching down from the bed, Orla tucked a gentle finger beneath the hobbit's chin and urged him to look at her, for he was currently worrying furiously at the ring held in his fingers.

_I will find you._ In that look Bilbo saw the old Orla, her eyes full of promises and warmth despite the changes - a hearth amidst a cool, dark night.

"Very well," he conceded in that moment. "I trust you, Orla."

.

* * *

.

Orla was gone from Thranduil's palace a day later. She had recovered as well as could be expected and had even been provided with fresh clothes and supplies. Elrond's mithril shirt was all that remained of her old outfit; her worn leathers had been exchanged for a fine suit of dark grey. Her weapons traveled on the back of one of the elven guards who accompanied her, with the promise that they would be returned to her once she was out of Mirkwood. The guard had praised her bow, recognizing it as coming from Rivendell, and had eyed it enviously before slinging it over his shoulder with a quiver full of new arrows.

She had heard no news from Bilbo since he had slipped from her room the day before. Had he freed the dwarves from their imprisonment, she guessed she would have caught wind of the commotion by now. As she had not, she supposed that meant the hobbit was still waiting for the most opportune moment. Either that or he had been discovered. Orla did not want to think of that, as no doubt it would send her into a fit and she saw no good in risking a confrontation with the elves.

Legolas himself had seen her off, offering kind words and assurances that he would speak to the Beornings about the full extent of the Necromancer's taint. She knew she really ought to thank him but the genuine quality of it fell short, seeing as how his father currently held all of her friends in his dungeons. When he had asked if she should like to be escorted to the western edge of the forest Orla had declined, gesturing instead to the east. If the prince was suspicious of her request he made no remark about it.

The only other instructions she had received had been from the healer, who, as he forced down her throat one last batch of tea, had offhandedly remarked, "I have never seen a beast cured once it has gone rabid, perhaps your stock will grant you a resistance. Or, more likely, your woman's mind will rot away and you will descend into a mongrel's madness in time. Be it the latter, I should be well pleased to dissect your inner-workings, though, alas, I doubt your father or the king would allow it." He had then proceeded to bid his freshly dismayed patient a tepid farewell. Needless to say, after that, dwarves or no dwarves, Orla had been more than happy to leave Mirkwood behind.

It was a good three days before Orla and the elves broke through the heavy treeline into the bright light of day. The wolf-woman had never been so happy to be free of a place in all her life and she did not spare so much as a single glance back the way she came, promising herself that any further travels would take every precaution to stay far, far away from Mirkwood Forest. The elves directed her to the nearest road, which they assured her would take her in two days' time to Esgaroth upon the Long Lake. They advised her to follow the road if she could and, should she encounter trouble, to follow the nearby Forest River instead.

"It flows from the heart of Lord Thranduil's lands," they told her, "it will lead you true."

The guards did not linger long for thanks, handing over her weapons and bidding her goodbye. Likewise, Orla did not wait around for darkness to set in. Strapping her weapons across her back, she looked back over her shoulder just once, half expecting that by some miraculous chance she might spot Bilbo, Kili, and the others emerging from the woods behind her. She had no such luck, however, and was left to hope that they had at least escaped by now.

For now, just as she had promised Bilbo, she would wait in Lake Town for them. And should they not return to her, she would just have to find them once more.

  



	22. A Dark Horizon

No one at all was very happy when they came out of the barrels that had borne them from the Elf-King's prison. Well, no one was happy save for Kili and Fili, who had both thought the whole ordeal was exciting and worthy of numerous songs. Thorin, for his part, was duly grateful to Mr. Baggins. He had been locked up far too long in the deepest darkest part of Thranduil's dungeons and he thought to be grumpy about it for a moment before he laid eyes on the far-away peak of the Lonely Mountain.

Far off in the distance, the mountain grew up from the scarred, ragged ground; its cliffs and crags appeared a dreary black from across the many miles but for Thorin, the mountain could have shined no brighter had it been made of gold. Unfortunately, as far as most of the other dwarves were concerned, the Lonely Mountain could at least wait until they all got their legs back under them. Bilbo was not much impressed, for he did not like the look of the jagged peak one bit.

The hobbit stood back from Thorin, ringing out his sopping wet clothes as he took in with some wonder the dwarf's starry-eyed reverence. Bilbo had no sooner squeezed the water from his coat than did a hard slap on the back cause him to drop it straight into the dirt. Grumbling miserably, Bilbo turned his eyes up at Kili, who had come to join him in his observation of Thorin.

"How goes it, Mr. Boggins?" the young dwarf asked, a crooked grin still hanging on him from the wild ride down the river.

Bilbo grunted an unhappy reply. "I'll be much better when I get something to eat, I should think."

"Aye," Kili acknowledged, "Good on you for gettin' us out of that pit, by the way! Uncle might adopt you yet."

"I think not," Bilbo declined with a shake of his wet head.

Kili took no offence and merely turned his attention back to his uncle for a few long moments. Whether or not he wondered about his uncle or about the mountain which his uncle had once called "home," Bilbo could not bring himself to ask. It was not until the hobbit started to move away that his arm was caught tight by Kili and he was drawn back.

His dark eyes shown with a hopefulness that Bilbo could not fault him for. He asked, "Orla's to be waitin' for us in Lake Town?"

The hobbit nodded and replied, "So she said."

Enormously pleased, Kili's smile grew even wider and he bounded over to Thorin's side, no doubt to hurry him along in making time toward Lake Town.

Bilbo had not had very much time to himself before another voice drew him reluctantly from his rigorous process of rearranging and straightening. The elder brother had come to stand beside him. Fili's normally fair hair had gone a few shades darker after being soaked and he seemed just as interested in ringing out his braids as he was in speaking to Bilbo.

His words may have been lighthearted but the look in his eyes was decidedly not as he said, "Disturbing, isn't it?"

Bilbo heaved a great breath, letting his head loll limply to the side. "What is?"

"My little brother's attempt at wooing."

"I can't say it's any of my business," Bilbo snapped, ready by now to have done with all his wet clothes and equally wet dwarves.

Fili cocked a doubtful brow and shook his head, unfooled. He voiced no further worries about Kili's infatuation, however.

"Alright, burglar, have it your way. Will you come with us into Lake Town? The others say they will wait here. I'd wager the river was hard on their old bones, no matter what they say."

"Yes, I'll come along. There's more likely to be food and a change of clothes in town than out here. Maybe handkerchiefs, too, if we should be so lucky."

Fili chuckled and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. "Aye, Master Baggins. Handkerchiefs if we're lucky."

.

* * *

.

While there were no handkerchiefs, there was quite a lot of food and drink to be had once Thorin had made certain everyone in the entire town was aware of the King Under the Mountain's gloriously foretold return. Thorin had wasted no time announcing himself, for better or for worse. Rather for worse, in Bilbo's personal opinion. The Master of Lake Town begrudgingly saw them all fed, although he had retreated once the townspeople's singing had grown too loud.

Thorin had been seated in the center of the largest table inside a great hall and Fili and Kili sat to his right and left. Bilbo himself even got a front and center seat, for which he was very thankful because it meant he was that much closer to the best food. They all ate their fill and spent the evening answering questions of the local Men-folk and defending themselves from the accusations of the few wood-elves present. The wood-elves, it seemed, had already gotten word of the dwarves' escape from their King's palace and had all pranced out of the dining hall as soon as Thorin had put them all in their place, telling everyone how his people had been wrongfully imprisoned – "waylaid" was the exact word, Bilbo recalled – and had escaped with the help of the ever impressive Master Baggins of the Shire.

"No lock nor bar may hinder the homecoming of old," Thorin had proclaimed ominously. That particular statement had not sat well with Bilbo, for he felt it awfully close to jinxing the whole endeavor.

The rest of dinner passed fairly uneventfully if all the revelry was not taken into account. A stream of pretty woman paraded themselves past the line of Durin and at one point, one of them even reached across the table to stroke Bilbo's hair. Nevertheless, it seemed that Fili preferred his women to have facial hair, Thorin was not much interested in loving anything but a mountain, and Kili, while he smiled charmingly at each of them, paid no real mind to any woman in the room.

It was only after the feast that the three dwarves and the hobbit were escorted to an amply sized home near the center of down. Thorin had requested their lodging be able to comfortably fit fourteen, which was lucky seeing as how the rest of the company had finally made their way into the town.

.

* * *

.

Kili had been settled no longer than a quarter of an hour before he was up and headed for the door. He had not quite reached it when he was called back by a voice whose tone warned of an imminent lecture.

"Kili." Thorin was propped lazily against a quietly burning fireplace in the sitting room, his arms folded against his chest.

With a sigh, Kili drew back his hand from the door knob and turned instead to face the other dwarf. "Yes, Uncle?"

"Going out?"

"For a walk," Kili thought to lie but, truthfully, he did not wish to raise Thorin's ire. He amended, "To see if I can find Orla."

There was a rumbling hum from deep in the older dwarf's throat as Thorin considered his nephew's response.

"Orla? Do you not think _Orla_ will come to us when she is ready?"

His words were not meant to mock; indeed, he looked all too knowing. Though Kili could not see it for the many feet between them, there was sadness in his uncle's gaze – a gentle, familial sort of look that was too kind to be pity and nearly too kind to be granted from Thorin. Pushing away from the fireplace, Thorin cleared his throat. "I should like to speak to her myself. Come, I will accompany you."

Kili made to argue, going so far as to open his mouth and utter the first syllable of a word before snapping it shut again with one look from Thorin. They grabbed their cloaks, which were hanging by the door, and drew them round their shoulders. The last hurrah of fall lay still in the air outside, cool enough with its breath to prick flesh and hair. The dwarves did not have to go far to find the woman they were looking for, or as was currently the case, the wolf. The creature lay curled at the bottom of the steps, her head tucked cozily into her shoulder and her tail wrapped round to her front paws.

"Perhaps I need not have bothered," observed Thorin with a sniff.

Both the dwarves descended the stairs; the crunch of frost beneath their boots waking the wolf as they moved toward her. She sat up lazily, her jaw opening wide in a yawn.

"You were welcome to knock on the door, wolf," Thorin admonished as he placed his hand atop her head. Kili chuckled and reached down to run his fingers through the scruff of her neck, saying, "Oh, I think she likes being difficult."

"Hmm, so it seems."

It was only when Kili saw his uncle scratch behind the wolf's ears that he wondered if maybe Thorin was beginning to grow a little fonder of the wolf. It was a good thing to see.

"Balin tells me that you knocked the Elvenking's worthless progeny into the dirt," Thorin said, finally removing his hand from the wolf's head.

If a canine could look smug, the wolf was making a fine effort with her head tilted up regally and ears at full height.

Beside her, Kili laughed. "Aye. And a fine job she did of it, too."

Having basked enough, the wolf stepped away from the dwarves and with the telltale puff of wind, Orla suddenly stood before them. She looked worse for wear, though probably only Thorin would admit it. Her face was scarred, having healed some since the last he'd seen of her, and for the first time since meeting her she was beginning to look her age, like a woman near thirty rather than the perpetually smiling adolescent she had appeared to be. Her dark clothes, as fine as they were, brought out the mottled blue and purple around her eyes, bestowing on her a look that was unsettling at best and, worse yet, hollow when the night's shadows shrouded her just so. Thorin noticed, too, that her stance was drawn and rigid and yet her shoulders remained pulled low as if she expected one of them to take a swing at her. She stood like a woman who had seen too much in too short a time.

While he had not looked upon his nephew with pity, he bestowed such a gaze on the woman now. Thorin had not wished for her to come this far; she and Kili both would have been better off if she had remained in Rivendell as planned. But her kind heart and those ridiculous maps, which had not actually proven to be of much use in the end, had led her to this point now.

And that, Thorin decided, was a damn shame.

.

* * *

.

Orla had declined entrance into the dwarves' lodging, having waved her hands animatedly in what Thorin had guessed was supposed to mean that she wanted to remain outside a bit longer. So wait she did, long after Thorin had dragged Kili by the coat collar back inside. The young dwarf had gone away sputtering, unable to understand why Orla would not follow.

It took Kili longer than Orla expected to get the idea and come back out after his imperious sitter had finally gone to bed. She was still sitting at the bottom step, this time with her legs drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. She did not look at Kili when she heard the front door open quietly behind her, rather she kept her eyes tilted up so that she might stare into night and count its stars.

There was no heavy clomping of boots as Kili descended. His gaze fell on Orla as he took a seat beside her and he stretched out his legs, feet leaving a streak across the frost that would mark 'til the sunrise that he had been there. She did not look at him until she felt his hands slip around her shoulders to drape something warm over them. The cloak was his, its dark blue wool still holding some of the warmth from inside. Gently, he reached round to her neck to fasten it there and Orla let him, lifting her head so that he could better access the cloak's clasp. His fingers lingered too long after the clasp was fastened and it was not until Orla shifted beside him that he pulled back his hands.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded, tucking the cloak around her. Raising a single eyebrow, she noted that Kili wore a cloak despite having just giving her the one which belonged to him.

"This?" He grinned, plucking at the fabric, "Oh, this is Fili's. Doubt he'll miss it, not 'til morning at least. Plenty of time to lose it between now and then."

Shaking her head, Orla said nothing and merely returned her eyes to the sky. She gently nudged his arm with hers but instead of looking at him she raised her hand to point up into the sky, crooking a finger at a single star to the west. It shone brightly above them, the prettiest diamond in a chest of jewels, twinkling brighter than all the others around it.

Kili leaned closer, a few inches difference across all that vast distance, and squinted his eyes until he'd gotten a good long look.

"What is it?"

Orla gave him a sad, gentle smile that told him all he needed to know.

_Home._

"Will you go…home, I mean? After all this is over - when we've reclaimed Thorin's mountain?" He asked the question thoughtfully, his voice soft but begging an answer.

Hands rubbing against her knees to put some feeling back into them from the chill, Orla considered for a few minutes, silent and unresponsive until Kili thought she might not reply. Finally, she looked at him and then to the ground. She did not know, he realized and whether or not he was relieved or saddened he could not say.

Kili asked his next question because he felt he had to, not particularly because he wanted.

"What about the boy?"

He really should not care; it was not really his business – no doubt Dwalin and Thorin would tell him that it was not any respectable dwarf's business to go meddling in the personal affairs of the women of Men. Besides, it was a sore topic - he was not so blind to that, and he had no wish to upset the woman at his side.

There came another half-hearted smile. Quickly, Orla stood and reached down to take Kili's hand and pull him up. Her grip was cool against his, ungloved and chilled from the cold air.

_For now,_ her eyes gleamed, _I go with you._

Now _that_ , Kili found some joy in. He laughed and squeezed her hand before she could pull it away.

"A good thing, too! Imagine all the trouble we'd get up to with that dragon without you."

It was Orla's turn to laugh, the jingle of her voice loud enough to be thought bright. Yet there was a culling at the end, as the merriment died away, that spoke of something more worried, something as sad as the gleam that sparked in her eyes for a brief moment before it was quenched with the disguise of reassurance.

Regardless, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared and the two were left in silence.

The young dwarf's cheeks were so numb from the cold air that he very nearly did not feel the ghosting of lips over his cheekbone as Orla moved beside him. She pulled away, ignoring the pleased smirk that was twitching at the corners of Kili's lips.

_Let's go._ She gestured with her head to the empty street near where they stood.

Kili stood and extended his arm, crooking his elbow so that she might take it. "Milady?"

Take it she did, slipping her hand into the crook where it was warm. They walked for a long while along the chilly wooden streets, pausing occasionally to look down at the waterways and watch for a while the way the water lapped at the timbers. A city on the water should have been beautiful, especially at night when the moon shone down on the glassy lake, but Lake Town was not. It was dirty and dark and Orla and Kili both were glad for each other's company in the empty streets. Kili chatted enough for the both of them, with Orla content to listen as she steered him aimlessly through the maze of buildings.

Kili was regaling her with a story from his childhood – something about tying his uncle's flowing locks to a bedpost – when Orla slowed her steps to a halt. His words fell away and he looked about. A dingy sign for an inn, the Lady of the Lake, hung precariously above their heads.

Frowning up at the sign, Kili said, "Oh Mahal, don't tell me this is where you're staying!"

Orla just shrugged and he gathered that it was indeed where she had been laying her head.

" _This_ is better than staying with us?" he asked skeptically. "Granted, there's probably less snorin' and less a arguin' about who gets the extra pillow but…Orla?"

The woman had already gone to the door and was holding it open. Kili beamed at the obvious invitation and strode inside. His complaints forgotten, he winked at her as he passed her, saying, "If you insist, _milady_."

Waving cheerfully at the bartender, Orla led Kili past the now vacated tables and upstairs. Her room was the second on the right and Kili only thought to ask her how she was paying for it as she opened the door.

She gave him a look as if to say she was appalled at whatever he might be implying and patted her side so that he could hear the soft jingle of coins. She might not have much but she had learned early in her travels to keep enough on her for a room.

The room was as grimy as the outside of the inn and Orla had stripped the bed clean of its quilt, a nasty, spotty thing that lay in the far corner. The grin on Kili's face – young rogue that he was – had yet to vanish, growing ever wider as he took in the room. He looked at the bed and then to Orla and then once at the conveniently low-standing dresser and table before back again to the waiting woman. This, he thought, was a most excellent turn of events.

No sooner than he had turned his back to lock the door did he hear a shuffling behind him. Turning with a grin, the young dwarf said, "Where shall we start? Lady's preference – Oh, _really_?"

His disappointment knew no bounds given the sudden development, for a tawny ball of fur had arranged itself comfortably at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, a fine thing that! Go and take a young lad up to your room and then…do that."

Grumbling, Kili undid his cloak and pulled off his coat and boots. "What if I should die up on that mountain?" he prattled on with no response from the wolf. "What will you say then? 'Woe befall my poor soul, for I had Kili of Durin locked in my room and, and…'"

He stopped himself when he reached the bed and sent a hand through his hair.

"Well," he conceded with a diplomatic sniffle, "I'm sleeping here, just so you know. _You_ can explain to Uncle Thorin on the morrow how you beguiled me away from his house."

With little else to be said, he hopped up onto the mattress and stretched out, tucking his bare feet under the wolf's warm fur. She growled at the intrusion and lifted her head to glare at him.

"What? You threw the cover clear across the room! Don't look at me."

From the twitching at the corners of his mouth, it was clear he was not truly angry at her. If anything, he seemed more than happy to be there. Pushing himself up on an elbow, he reached down with one hand to pet the wolf's head. With a placated huff, she let it drop back down to her paws.

The creature had just about fallen asleep when Kili's voice broke softly through the room. "Orla," he asked for old time's sake, "you didn't happen to eat a woman and take her room, did you?"

The bite mark she left on his toe was answer enough.

.

* * *

.

The morning proved to have nearly as much revelry as the previous night. Well-rested dwarves rolled out of bed to find a pantry full of breads and jams and all manner of sausages. Truly, the hospitality of Lake Town knew no bounds. It was not until Fili emerged from his room sans his little brother that Thorin's morning began to bear the first signs of trouble. Fili explained that Kili had not been present when he'd woken up and no one had seen him since.

Hands falling frustratedly to the table, the eldest Durin looked around amidst the many shaking heads that echoed Fili's earlier statement.

"Bilbo!" Thorin called, catching the hobbit coming round the corner. "Have you seen Kili?"

Through a mouthful of buttered toast, Bilbo said that he had not.

It was only a timely rapping at the door that quelled Thorin's rising anger. He threw it open and there, illuminated by a halo of mid-morning light, stood his missing nephew and his companion. Kili greeted Thorin cheerfully, cheeks rosy beneath his scruff from the cool air, and immediately handed over to him for examination the new quiver full of arrows he'd bought.

With no choice but to take what had been thrust at him, Thorin moved aside so that the two newcomers might come in from the chill.

As he helped Orla with her cloak, Kili went on to explain, "Orla and I went to the fletcher this morning. Got up early."

It was not a flat lie, for they had gotten up early despite however hard it may have been, since Kili had awoken to find Orla and not the wolf with her head tucked into his shoulder and blonde hair tickling his nose. After all but pushing the chipper dwarf from the bed, they actually _had_ gone to the fletcher. But they had also gone to the baker and then to the tailor and then back to the baker. Orla, as it was, smiled at Thorin and directed his gaze to the armful of baked goods she was holding. The cloak Kili had taken from her had been new, pretty and blue, but Thorin had no way of knowing she had bought it solely because she had refused to keep Kili's.

"I'm afraid there's no need for the food, girl," Thorin told her. He waved a hand back at the kitchen, which had been raided almost as severely as Bilbo's had many months ago.

Orla only shrugged and stepped past the older dwarf, trying not to drop a loaf of sourdough as she went.

"Most of it's for travelin'," Kili whispered when Orla vanished into the pantry. "She says it'll last a while."

One dark brow rose questioningly. "She says?"

"Well, you know...in her own way."

With that, Kili took back his arrows and headed for his room. Thorin watched him go, dark eyes narrowed and mouth set hard. He was troubled but decided to make no mention of it now; the girl had been useful – helpful, even, if he was being honest – and she'd have her uses yet. Still, mountains and dwarven kingdoms of old were not places for either skin-changers or women and Orla happened to be both. She had a family to go back to and the elder Durin found himself sorely wishing she'd get to it. He could not be, did not _want_ to be, responsible for her or for what she might become should things not go in her favor. There were dragons and golden treasures on the horizon, Thorin could feel it in his bones, and wolves had no business being involved in any of that. Then again, he had said much the same thing about Mr. Baggins. The burglar, however, was in no danger of hurting anyone else more than he might hurt himself.

For Thorin Oakenshield knew well that dragons might burn and swords might cut, but broken hearts killed cruelest of all, and ironclad as his heart might be, he did not wish that fate on her.


	23. To Err is Human

Soft breaths whispered in faint conversation with the crackling embers of the fireplace. Bilbo stirred lightly at a loud pop, the nearby timber rupturing to reveal splinters of burnt orange and molten gold that glowed softly in the dim sitting room. Beside the sleeping hobbit, his watcher shifted, her own eyes fluttering open drowsily at the sound. Orla had been dozing, having relaxed an hour earlier on a belly full and heavy with lunch. With a deep breath, she took in the pleasant aroma of the burning wood, hoping it would either wake her or lull her back to sleep. Warm and piney, the scent settled cozily in her chest, urging her with comforting temptation to close her eyes for a little while longer and rest while she could.

Instead, a stubborn hand came up of its own accord to rub the sleep from her eyes and she pushed out of the chair to her feet. With grey eyes that were nearly black in the fire light, she looked over to her hobbit and found him still napping soundly in the chair opposite from her. His small form was curled comfortably in the confines of the chair's armrests and Orla noted that he was snoring, something that was uncommon for the hobbit. Perhaps, she figured, that much like the others Bilbo was comfortable for the first time in many, many moons.

The others, most namely Thorin, appeared to have gone out and the house was quiet as a result. Here and there Orla could make out the sounds of one or two remaining dwarves as they ambled about behind the doors to their bedrooms. She paid little attention to the faint goings on in the house, for her stomach suddenly insisted that she go find herself some tea, something to warm the faint chill that hung in the air the further she withdrew from the fire. She had only just reached the kitchen, her hand outstretched for a kettle, when a voice spoke up behind her. She did not have to look to know it was Kili. Truthfully, she was not certain she _wanted_ to see him.

Her mind flashed back to earlier that same morning when she had awoken to find her cheek pressed into the warm bend between the young dwarf's neck and shoulder. One of his arms had been around her, holding her to him even after she had started to wriggle in embarrassment. She had no excuse for wrapping herself around him in the night, crawling up beside him as a woman rather than wolf. Yet, there had been more comfort there with him atop that small grungy bed than she could recall feeling for the past ten years. A simple, sleep-ridden embrace, one that should not have taken place, had given the woman more peace in the five minutes between waking up and forcing Kili from the bed than she could remember.

Now, as she stood with her back to him in the kitchen _,_ she told herself in near mantra-like fashion, _For better or for worse, I will not regret it_. A comfort, a trivial gesture - that was all it had been. Reassured, she turned with a smile to greet the waiting dwarf.

Kili was leaned against the kitchen archway, his legs angled out to cross at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. That same chest was bare, save for the damp smattering of dark hair that was no thicker than what he grew on his face. His cock-sure grin was half obscured by the tangle of freshly scrubbed hair that had gone black in the water. A linen towel was slung limply over his shoulder, the final clue to tell her he had just come from the bath. There, clad in nothing but loose fitting pants, he watched as Orla stared at him, taking him in through surprised, though markedly pleased, eyes. Despite the seeming spryness of his youth, he was broad where Men would have been narrow, square and solid from shoulders to hips.

A single fair eyebrow rose of its own accord as Orla took in the sight before her. _Had he looked like that this morning, it may have taken me longer to drive him from the bed._ Orla's cheeks heated at the thought and she pivoted on her heel to face the counter once again. She was no blushing virgin – her son was proof enough of that – but if the sudden churning in her gut was any indication, there was a distinct difference between flirtation and a stolen kiss and ogling poor, strapping, half-naked Kili outright.

The worst thing was that Orla was positive the smarmy little bastard had popped in to see her like that on purpose. He had been harmless enough with his freshness in Rivendell but ever since, things had been progressing into a territory of which Orla found herself suddenly and quite distressingly unsure. She made an applaudable show of keeping her back to him as she held out a second empty tea cup in offering. A fresh brew would hopefully prove to be a valuable distraction.

Kili made a sound that was lost somewhere between a chuckle and a deeply insulted scoff before shuffling away from the wall to close the distance between himself and the skin-changer. His steps were quieter than usual, bare feet padding against the wooden floor as he moved.

_If only his mouth might keep as quiet,_ the woman lamented.

Quickly, her traitorous heart amended the idea, for she knew that the moment Kili of Durin was quiet he would no longer be Kili at all. No one else who Orla had the pleasure of knowing was quite so adept at yammering as the young prince and she would not have him cease just because the blush at her cheeks had yet to fade away.

As she steeped the tea leaves, she made no move to face him; it was not truly out of rudeness but rather because she had not yet convinced herself if her reluctance was out of shyness or to keep hidden the damnable dimpling that was currently pulling at the corners of her mouth. Behind her, she heard a muffled grunt followed by the brush of fabric against wood. Had she looked back over her shoulder, she would have seen that Kili had boosted himself up onto the table behind her. She also would have noticed that his swinging legs kept falling just short of her rear end.

Orla had only just started busying herself with rifling through the numerous clay pots that lined the counter, looking for honey, when she felt the curls at the crown of her head being victimized by hands that could not keep themselves occupied.

"You've lovely hair," Kili announced after capturing a particularly springy lock around his fingers. With a laugh, he added, "Dwarf women have coarser hair. Especially on their chins."

Unsuccessful in her search for honey but having found instead sugar, a poor substitute, Orla finally turned around to find that Kili was nearly eye level with her, lazed back as he was atop the table. One side of the dwarf's mouth was screwed upwards, either amused or smug or most likely both. Orla's eyes narrowed on him and she placed a protective hand over her chin to spare it an insulting evaluation if Kili should choose to lean in and give it a good once over for whiskers.

"Oh, my sincerest apologies," he grinned, but not before catching Orla's hand as it dropped. His large fingers were still warm from the bath water and they ghosted over and between Orla's much smaller knuckles. The woman watched his fingers as they moved with more deftness than a dwarf should be capable of, large as his hands were. His were much more callused than hers, though hers were not all that soft. They never had been. She found herself wishing sorely all of a sudden that they were, that she could be rid of the nicks and cracks of travel. Kili, however, did not seem to mind much at all, his thumb glancing with care over her scars.

He was quiet for a long moment and Orla was left to wonder if perhaps she would be privy to one of his ever surprising bouts of seriousness.

"We don't have much further to go," said Kili after a while, "Erebor's not far. There's all that dragon business to attend to, of course."

His smile then was almost whimsical, as if he might be excited about the whole endeavor of meeting and beating a man-eating dragon, but fortunately for Orla's peace of mind the look faded quickly.

"Another month an' this all might be over."

Upon hearing those words and catching the meaning in them, Orla tightened her hand around his, threading her fingers with those that had previously held hers. Eyes shining, she looked across the near level distance between them.

_Is that so terrible?_

All sorts of good things came at the end of adventures – gold, stories to tell, lessons learned. None of those things ought to be feared. Dragons were right frightening, naturally, but Orla decided that so long as she kept an eye on Bilbo – and if she was being completely honest with herself, Kili, as well - then the heroics of dealing with Smaug could be left up to Thorin's troop.

She really thought Kili ought to be excited but the way he looked at her now bespoke something much different. Looking into his eyes, so much warmer than her own, she realized that he would miss her when the end of this whole adventure came round. Her heart sat heavy in her chest at the thought, suspended there like a water balloon on a string.

She thought she might choke on it.

In retrospect, she really should not have done what she did then but she went and did it anyway, for Kili just looked too sad and Orla had never cared much for sad things. Later, she would think better of her actions, hindsight being what all it is, though she would never come to regret them.

Indeed, a woman her of her age and experience really should know better but she let herself forget all the bad sorts of lessons she had learned over the years. Knowing all that and giving more damns about Kili than about any of that nonsense, she leaned right in and kissed him.

It should have been a sweet kiss, one meant to cheer him, but somewhere in between her lips and his it became something more. If Kili was surprised by her sudden change in demeanor, he either hid it well or did not care, as his lips sprung hungrily to life under Orla's guidance. Soft, rose-bud flesh danced against lips that were chapped and firm but every bit as fervent.

Something really out to be done with her hands, Orla was well aware, because at the moment they were stuck awkwardly up in the air, fingers curling round nothing but hovering uncertainly over Kili's bare arms. That all changed as one large hand slid beneath Orla's hair to draw her closer, clasping with that familiar, comforting warmth, and Kili's other arm wrapped round the curve of her back to hitch her into the open space between his knees.

Orla's formerly empty hands found their home against the smooth, wiry muscle of Kili's shoulders, knocking away the towel there without a care so that she could reach his back. He had a bowman's back, firm and chiseled from years of pulling heavy draw strings. She was not unaware that he held her now like he might a bow, drawing her further with every breath 'til she was taunt and wanting nothing but release, one way or another.

Her mouth opened against his for a breath but his tongue found passageway instead, treading in a wet, satisfying arc where it had not been before. He laved away at the inside of her mouth, softly, gently, until she uttered the faintest of sounds. A word or a name – his name – but he could not be certain. Teeth sunk into the plentiful padding of that too-wide mouth. There it was again, those same two syllables, uttered upon the cusp of a soft groan.

" _Thorin,_ "

Kili went rigid in her arms. Wide-eyed, he gaped at her, his previously dilated pupils withering to horrified pinpricks in an instant. Orla shook her head, dazed and chewing on her lip as her head swam round in a haze from the sudden withdrawal. It struck her then, what she had said and what the poor lad must be thinking if the look of abject dismay was any indication. Quick as a flash, Orla snatched up his hands, shaking her head furiously all the while, and gestured with her head toward the hall.

_Thorin's returned,_ she tried to tell him. Caught up as he had been, Orla doubted Kili had heard the open and close of the front door and the grumbling voice of a king returned from running errands. Craning back his head, nostrils flared as if he might sniff out his uncle and his untimely intrusion, Kili listened for anything at all. Heaving a thankful sigh when he heard Thorin's rumbling voice issuing orders to dwarves as they no doubt came through the door behind him, Kili turned back around to face Orla.

"Well, thank Mahal!" He grinned in near delirious relief at the woman across from him. "I thought –"

Orla pinched him hard on the thigh before he could finish the sentence, her face screwing up into a mask of horror to match the one he'd worn not a minute earlier. There was only one Durin she was willing to kiss and his name was most certainly, beyond the shadow of the faintest doubt _not_ Thorin. Neither of the pair had time to say much else before Kili's name came rumbling down the hall from the foyer.

"Well, madam," he smiled as he readied to kick himself off the table, "We'll have to resume this at a later date!"

Orla made to glare at him for his presumption but her eyes hardly had time to narrow before Kili's large hands had gripped her face and yanked her lips back to his for a quick but thorough kiss adieu. He left her sputtering at the table, small hands gripping tight the sanded wood and back turned to the black and bitter tea that lay forgotten.

.

* * *

.

Bags were packed and foodstuffs stocked to the brink of exploding in a hail of breads and dry sausages as they lay in wait by the door. Throughout the house dwarves and a hobbit busied themselves with buckling layers of clothes and checking weapons, all of them ready to set out toward the single distant mountain. Many a stray eye was cast toward the easternmost window of the house to look at the faraway peak of the Lonely Mountain, which stood in austere solidarity amidst the already winter-bleak landscape. It seemed to await their arrival in near reverence, its blackened base splayed out like waiting hands to grip them tight in welcome, perhaps never to release them again.

The lone woman among the group flitted through the house, half in boredom and half from nerves. She wanted to leave and yet, deep in her roiling belly, she was unsure in which direction she truly wanted to head. The dwarves were naturally still bound for their original destination – rain nor snow could stop that now – but she suddenly found herself as wary as ever of continuing. It was only when Bilbo came padding over to her to ask her to help with his scarf that Orla was reminded exactly to why she should and would go on. Kneeling down to wrap the coarse, warm wool around the hobbit's neck, Orla promised herself that she would allow no truly awful calamities to befall her small friend in this last leg of the journey.

She had just finished tying off the scarf when Bilbo looked up at her suddenly, his brown eyes holding more nervousness than even her own. They met hers and seemed to find some reassurance there, though Orla noted curiously that it was not as much as she was used to seeing from him. He used to smile so when he saw her, used to be so very comforted by her larger hand wrapped around his, but no longer. His grins were short, clipped at times, seeming almost perfunctory. At other times, those smiles looked very near frightened, and he had not reached for her hand in quite some time. Of course, he still remained by her side but not so close as he once had, as if being forced to choose which predator to whom he should submit himself – Orla or Thorin – and all the time never letting the worried look in his eyes calm.

Quietly now, he asked, "Will you be alright?"

Orla wanted to shrug, to roll her shoulders and with the movement shed Bilbo's concern. She did not do so; instead, she nudged Bilbo's chin up with her thumb and gave him an earnest smile.

_Oh, I think so._ Squeezing his chin softly, she let her hand fall down to his shoulder. _Will you help me?_

There just a flash, just a brief instant, that Bilbo's new grimness faded and he nodded. "I shall try my best."

"It's what you do, Bilbo," spoke Orla gently.

She pressed her lips to the top of his head as she stood and then urged him on about his last-minute business. The hobbit had not long turned a corner out of sight when Orla heard her name called from the bedroom at her back. She twisted her head round to look, lips twitching warily when she saw Thorin standing broad-shouldered and imposing in the room's doorway.

"A word?"

Nodding Orla went over to him and he moved to the side so that she could slip past into his room. She had not thought he would close the door but when she heard the click of the knob snapping back into place, she saw that the hall had disappeared and a solid wall of wood stood in its place.

"You are dressed for travel," Thorin observed, his arms crossing in what was no doubt supposed to be a posture of intimidation. It surprised her and the thought that perhaps this sudden peculiar show might be put on for Thorin's own benefit. Yet, as she stood back and looked at him, she noted that there was no comfortable slouch of familiarity about him.

However respectful of her gifts and uses he might be, Orla realized then and there that she and Thorin were not friends. In truth, she had noticed that the dwarf seemed much fonder of the wolf than he was of the woman. It was an odd development, the opposite of what typically occurred, although coming from one such as Thorin, Orla supposed she need not be surprised. Animals did not, could not lie, while people, be they dwarves, elves, or humans, had motivations oftentimes not rooted in honor.

With this in mind and unsure of whether she was disappointed or not, Orla merely nodded in response to his observation.

"And are you well enough? You did not fare well in that cursed forest."

At the mention of Mirkwood, her eyes narrowed so drastically it was almost comical. _Well enough._

Thorin was undeterred by the wolf-woman's prickliness. He did at least uncross his arms, realizing it would get him nowhere, and gave a sigh not quite of exasperation but of tiredness nonetheless.

"It was my understanding, _Orla,_ that you were to remain in Esgaroth. Is that not what you claimed some time ago?"

Her name whipped from his tongue with a sharpness of which only he was capable. _Taunting,_ Orla thought, her skin prickling with a strange and foreign indignity that she could not remember feeling before.

Thorin's keenness had not withered during the previous few months' trials and he must have noticed her shoulders squaring beyond their usual breadth because he held up a single hand, a diplomatic gesture of peace. Upon seeing it, Orla cooled, shaking her head of the snarl that had begun to wrap dark tendrils around her mind. She had very nearly opened her mouth to snap at him about minding his own business and that she would go wherever she well pleased.

This time, however, her customary silence reigned.

A large thumb ran across one dark brow and Thorin paused long enough to gather his thoughts and words. He began, "I must make clear to you that after our mountain is reclaimed, myself and my people," he paused and gave her a hard look, "my _heirs_ , will have no small amount of duties before us. You, I trust, will wish to see Master Baggins returned safely home."

In other words, soon she would go far, far away and never, ever come back. Orla blinked a few times when she caught the meaning of his words. She had made an effort not to think too hard on what she would do after – or rather, _if_ – Thorin got his mountain back. The company would no doubt part ways under the burden of new duties. It was sad but Orla had never deceived herself into thinking otherwise. Then again, she had never had reason to until Kili had come barreling into the picture.

That, however, was something to think about later once Thorin did not have his nose shoved into her business.

Orla gave a sigh of her own and shrugged, knowing the likelihood was that she would do exactly at Thorin hoped she would. She would hit the road and be gone from the dwarves' lives. Kili would outlive her, as dwarves tended to do, and until then he would have his duties befitting one of the king's nephews. There was not much to hope for, Orla knew, but for what great comfort could be found and cherished until they parted ways. That was something in and of itself, valuable despite what Thorin wanted, and Orla thought she might do well not to take it for granted. Even if she did pride herself on not being a fool if she could help it.

Taking a step nearer to Thorin and looking down at him from the few inches she stood above him, she extended her hand to him in offering. He eyed it peculiarly, unaccustomed to shaking hands with women of Men and skin-changers and not knowing really how far to trust either of them. Finally, after a short inner debate, Thorin thrust his own hand out to meet hers. There was weight in his grip, and strength, along with a veiled threat of retribution should this unspoken deal ever be broken. Yet, there was honesty there, too, between their palms and Thorin knew that Orla would do as he wanted her and more. On her life, she would keep the burglar and his nephew safe should the worst come to pass in the belly of Erebor.

That was something Thorin could respect. Having struck that accord, the future King Under the Mountain knew he could ask no more and stood aside to open the door, watching as the wolf-woman slipped out with one final cool glance to meet his eyes and left him standing alone.


	24. A Mountain of Trouble

The people of Lake Town were glad to see Thorin and Company leave, with the most exuberant among them no doubt being the Master of the city. As the dwarves were waved a proper goodbye, loaded down with supplies and all manner of necessities, most of Lake Town's inhabitants figured they would not be seeing any more of them. Some of the older folk who knew of the prophesized return of the line of Durin to Erebor thought better, though they were mostly so old as to be near senile and as such, to the Master and the majority of his subjects it did not matter much at all what they thought. The dwarves were set in their determination, undeniably, and not a single one of them faltered as they crossed the Long Lake to the far side, ready to march on once they had unloaded from the icy waters their persons and packs.

Bilbo did not much like the look of the land that stretched before him, black and white and as bitter as anything he had seen. The lands around the Lonely Mountain, even as far away as the lake, were still scarred by the awful desolation that had occurred so many years before. That one day, all those decades ago, dragon-fire had burned so hot and with such hellish might that the ground and vegetation had yet to recover; now it stretched before the company in snow-covered wastes.

Beside Bilbo, Orla shifted uncomfortably, her boots crunching against dead, frozen tuffs of what was once grass. For a long time they walked, their movements half-concealed by the looming shadow of the mountain ahead of them, wrapping them all in a dark cloak that weighed heavy upon some of them and quickened the steps of others. By evening the company had come to the ruins of the city of Dale. The once bustling streets had been rendered by fire and claw into the skeletal remains of buildings and courtyards. Dale stood empty now, save for whispers on the wind from voices long dead, their cries whipping into the livings' ears as chill gusts blustered past. Thorin, Balin, and some of the others stood upon the miserable precipice, their eyes downcast in remembrance of that fateful day so long ago.

It was at Bilbo's urging that they all moved on, resuming their march toward the Lonely Mountain. Time had passed well into the night, for they had all continued past sundown under Thorin's command, when they reached the first wall of the mountain's incline. High, high above, the peak stood watch over them, a stalwart and unmoving guardian to Erebor's massive doors below. Those doors, unfortunately, had shut long ago. A new door must be found and that task seemed suddenly to the hobbit nigh impossible as he stood looking at the Lonely Mountain in all its enormity.

"We make camp for the night," Thorin ordered. "Stay quiet. Stay sharp."

Bilbo slept under the watchful eye of Orla. She sat near Ori, helping him mend a tear in his boots that had occurred while walking over the treacherous and rocky path that had plagued them thus far. Every so often she would glance up and make certain that the halfling was still sleeping undisturbed.

Bilbo awoke in the grey light of the morning and found the woman still nearby, her head tilted to the side in dreamless sleep. He let her stay that way, going instead over to Bombur, who was handing out rations of bread and jerky. A hot meal had not been prepared by Thorin's recommendation, as he was reluctant to give any further sign of their presence to any creatures lurking in or around the mountain.

"A scouting party's what we need," old Balin said after finishing his breakfast. "Or several, if we're to find the door quickly."

Fili nodded but made a suggestion of his own. "Do you not fear waking Smaug? We can't all go clamping about."

"Aye, you're right, laddie," Balin agreed, "Small parties then. Nine dwarves, three groups. The rest should stay here and keep an eye on the camp."

Thorin thought for a few moments longer before finally agreeing that this would be the best idea. He divided the groups as he saw fit. Bofur, Nori, and Dwalin to the east; Gloin, Balin, and Thorin himself to the west; and Bilbo would go with Fili and Kili straight up from the camp.

Bilbo thought that was all well and good, as he did not much fancy sitting around in the open waiting for Smaug to wake up on a chance and swoop down to have him for bacon. Orla, on the other hand, was not pleased with Thorin's division of the group and she let them know as much by clearing her throat and sending the dwarf a look that clearly conveyed her displeasure. Bilbo watched as Thorin looked from Orla and then back at him, his dark eyes irritated but acknowledging.

"Very well," the future king conceded, "you may babysit the halfling as you see fit, woman."

Pleased, Orla came to join the hobbit at his side. Bilbo supposed he was thankful. Different though she seemed to be nowadays, Orla was still pleasant enough company when her mood was steady, which was frankly more often than Bilbo gave her credit for. He tried to smile up at her and she did the same in return, albeit more genuinely than he had done. Looking away with a sigh, he convinced himself that it was simply his nerves acting up this close to the mountain. _And why should they not?_ Bilbo could think of no reason. For dragons and long-empty kingdoms were dangerous things, regardless of whether one was more Took or Baggins. Instead, seeking to comfort Orla for once and make a gesture of continued good nature, Bilbo reached up take her hand in his and gave it a solid squeeze.

Surprised, Orla glanced down at him, distracting herself from whatever speech Thorin was onto now. This time, her grin was a sunny one – delighted and renewed. Whatever Thorin's reservations, he said nothing else in regards to Orla accompanying his nephews and the burglar as everyone prepared to set off in their search parties. No one rightly knew exactly where the hidden dwarven door was but potential areas had at least been narrowed down. Then again, "narrowed down" did not mean much when confronted with a mountain the size of the one currently before them.

Fili and Kili were undeterred by the undertaking, their whispers to one another excited as they headed up the slope. Bilbo and Orla followed suite. Of the four, the woman had the easiest time scaling the cliff face; her fair head popped up here and there to wave a negative report back to her companions. Bilbo decided in the meantime that he did not much like climbing mountains, as this experience was not any more enjoyable than that which he recalled from the Misty Mountains a few months prior. It did not help that somewhere far below all this stone and dirt he suspected a dragon lay sleeping amidst a pile of gold and jewels. The very same gold and jewels that he had been promised a share of, although that was not so very important to poor Bilbo so long as he got off this mountain and back home alive.

Eventually when the slope grew too steep and the rocks too jagged for simple climbing, Fili and Kili had to take turns hoisting each other up so that one of them could boost the other two mountaineers into waiting, outstretched hands. The trek went like that for a long while as hours slipped by and the midday sun faded into golden twilight. The climb down would be too dangerous to make during the night and it was decided, after waving to the base camp far below, that the four would rest the night there on the mountainside. Their search so far had not been fruitful and since no sign of Thorin or the other group could be seen down below, it was assumed that they had fared no better.

Packs were set down against one of the larger, flatter outcroppings. No fire could be lit for fear of revealing their presence and the cold at this higher elevation had begun to sink in deeper into the bone than it had at the base of the mountain. Coats did little good once their bodies had entered into a state of rest, the huff and puff of the climb no longer pumping blood through their veins to help heat them, and all four slept back to back for the night.

It did not escape Bilbo, who was rather amused and somewhat aghast at the forwardness of it all, that Fili had arranged himself next to the hobbit and pulled his brother down on the other side. Orla was left to slip down on Bilbo's left, opposite of the young dwarf who had made no small effort to finagle his way over to her despite his elder brother's wishes. Eyes were made all during the night, Bilbo noticed, though mostly it was from a wistful Kili rather than Orla, who had fallen fast asleep soon after laying down.

The next morning chased away much of the frost that had settled and gave them light enough to search for half the morning before making their way back down to the base camp. Everyone had returned by noon and none of them had good reports.

"Not a single sign of th' door, I'm afraid," Gloin announced as they all tucked in for a lunch that was mostly the same as what they had had the day before.

"We'll find it," Thorin assured them all, "There's time yet."

The remaining time he was referring to was actually only two days. Durin's Day would be upon them soon and if the door was not found and, more importantly, opened before then, all had been for naught. That was no good, of course, and Bilbo decided as much while he polished off his slice of unbuttered bread. He had not fought goblins, wargs, spiders, and all manner of other horrors just to come this far and _not be able to find the door._

Thinking to himself and desiring to give some hope to the others, he inquired about Gandalf.

Unsurprisingly, Dwalin did not share his faith in the missing Maiar. "Wizard's not here obviously. We were up there on that mountain all day and night and saw not a sign of him."

"Aye, I'd not hope for him, Master Baggins," Thorin agreed, though his eyes were not as severe as his words. "You and I," he continued, "will have another look round in an hour. Perhaps a burglar can make heads or tails of this map when we cannot."

It was a small jest but one nonetheless and coming from Thorin that had to count for something. Bilbo did not wish to anger him after having struggled so hard to earn even this amount of faith, so he contented himself with agreeing.

Still, he was not quite so keen as his words led the others to believe; Bilbo did not particularly relish the idea of going for another climb up the mountain but he was wise enough to realize that maybe the dwarves' excitement to find the entrance had only impeded their ability to actually do so. He had done things like that many times back home, things such as putting his hat down right as he was getting ready to go out the door and then not being able to find it again for another half hour when it was really resting on the coat rack all along.

Orla went with the pair when the time came. During their ascension, high past even where they had gone the day before, the hobbit fretted more than once that Orla or Thorin might get the idea to shove the other straight over the edge. Orla did not much care for Thorin's grumbling and Thorin cared little for the fact that her light form kept flitting by him during the hike. Bilbo mediated when he could but it did little good the further they went and the more exhausted they became. Thorin's barking was silenced on two remarkable instances when Orla actually appeared to grow so tired of listening to him that she turned right around and told him as much. Bilbo did not like the look she got in her eyes the second time; there was no playfulness there, no teasing, just a sharp rebuke that shut even Thorin's mouth for a moment.

That same rebuttal sparked a flurry of bickering that amounted to more words being uttered from the woman than Bilbo had heard her say the entire journey. Somehow, she managed to hold her own against Thorin with an impressive mixture of half-quotes and glares, not speaking much but saying enough to rile the male in front of her when she did. At one point, well into the afternoon, the dwarf king looked ready to snatch her by the collar and hike her up over his head to cast her right off the cliff. Thankfully, he refrained, his hands gripping instead at his belt only to let go so that he could shove a dictatorial finger or two into the woman's chest. She had only just swatted that hand away when Bilbo whipped around with a long-suffering grown. He opened his mouth to hush them both only to snap it closed again when his sharp eyes caught sight of an oddly misshapen bit of stone over Orla's head, about twenty more feet up from where the trio now stood.

"There!" hollered the burglar all of a sudden, his finger snapping out to point the way.

Disbelieving, Thorin fell quiet in the bat of an eye and craned his dark head up so that he might look where the eagle-eyed Mr. Baggin's was pointing. Orla, too, cast her gaze upwards to the new found door, tucked away as it was. While the outline was very nearly invisible, the faint glimmer of runes carved into the rock face marked beyond a doubt that there lay something different from the surrounding stone.

"Bless my soul and those of my ancestors," Thorin whispered, mouth hanging agape on the final word.

He turned back to Bilbo and for the first time since the hobbit could remember, the king actually _smiled_. Relief, happiness, genuine awe…all these things came flooding from Thorin's eyes to breach the stern lines of his face, twirling them up so that there was a brief glimpse of the young dwarf prince who had fled this very mountain all those years before.

"Shall we climb up?"

Thorin swallowed and nodded his head. He moved forward, gesturing silently for the others to follow. His steps were long, taking stretches of stone in multiple feet at the time, and his fingers locked like talons to haul his bodyweight up. He paid no more attention to the strain than he would a walk down the hall, a fire having been lit beneath him so that Orla and Bilbo were left to scramble up after him. By the time Orla pulled Bilbo up from the edge by his dangling arms, Thorin was already standing before his ancestors' door, running his thick-fingered hands over it in raw fascination.

Finally speaking up, he said, "One day more and we shall be able to open it."

Looking back over his shoulder with that long-lost young prince's eyes, he breathed, "How I long for it. To see the halls of my people again, the shadows of my father's glory guiding my steps! You know nothing of the splendor that awaits us, my friends."

Orla shifted nervously. _Or of the dragon,_ her eyes reminded him.

"Bilbo! How many hours have we before nightfall?"

Truth be told, hobbits tended to have pretty reliable internal clocks – it was imperative for keeping track of mealtimes, after all. So, Bilbo had a fair idea of the hour when he gave Thorin his answer.

"It's well past midday now. We've been climbing since lunch. I don't think we'll make it down."

" _We_ might not," Thorin responded urgently, "But you can. Put those feet of yours to use and hurry down to tell the others. Tell them to gather their equipment and lead them up come first light."

Stepping away from the door but with one hand still outstretched to it as if he were afraid it might sprout wings and break from the enchantment that held it, Thorin added, "You've done well thus far. Go now and be quick about it!"

Having little choice but to hurry if he wanted to make it down before darkness set in, Bilbo readied himself for descent. Orla moved to accompany him, re-lacing her boots quick as flash. An order from Thorin called her back.

"Wait here with me, woman. Fast of foot you may be but not so fast as our burglar; you'll slow him down. Keep your wolf's eye on this door."

_Thorin,_ her gaze warned, _I go with the hobbit._

The hobbit in question watched for a few moments as Orla and Thorin stared each other down, some unknown exchange passing between them that Bilbo could not fathom. Whatever spell the discovery of the door had cast over the dwarf had made him impossible to sway and he would not budge from his place, telling Orla that she _would_ stay and help him look for a key hole on the off chance it might be found before Durin's Day actually arrived. By the time Orla looked back over her shoulder, no doubt having decided she would follow Bilbo anyway, the burglar had gone and disappeared as quick as his feet could carry him.

.

* * *

.

The wolf-woman's scowl had not abated in the hours since Bilbo's departure. It was an annoyance for Thorin, but one he would have to deal with as he ran his hands back and forth over crevices and breaks in the stone wall.

Eyeing the woman in frustration, Thorin eventually told her, "You should have more faith in our burglar. He'll be fine between here and camp."

Her hard look softened and she gave a sigh, her hands coming to rest against the cool rock as she leaned to press her forehead against its solidness.

_I know._

All Thorin gave her in response was a disinterested _hmm_ before resuming his own examination of the door, focusing this time on the ancient runes carved above his head.

"Do you know what these say?"

Orla shook her head; she did not know.

So it was that Thorin proceeded to translate the old words for her and from his voice, she could not tell if he cared more for the words or for the stone they had been inscribed upon.

"' _He who gives heart to his greed destroys his house,_ '" ghosting his fingers along the last of the runes, Thorin stepped back and squared his shoulders before casting his eyes over to meet those of the staring woman. "A warning of old, one written long ago."

_For you?_

Curious, Orla tilted her head to look from Thorin up to the words he had read. He gave no indication that he cared to answer her wordless inquiry and she had to wonder if he had even noticed it all, so spellbound was he with the impending infiltration of the mountain.

For an hour longer, the pair combed every visible inch of the door for a keyhole but none was found. Orla eventually was overcome with worry for Bilbo that she stopped assisting Thorin altogether and took to wearing a trail from one end of the outcrop to the other. When night fell and it became too dark to search, the dwarf finally rested his eyes and hands and sat down with his back to the rock face. Little attention was paid to Orla and he let her continue her fretting as she pleased, preferring to take his rest while he could. After a while, her steps slowed to a stop and she folded her legs beneath her with a restless huff.

A few moments of silence reigned in what was normally an acceptable commonplace between the two companions. Finally, it was the woman who broke the quiet. It was unclear whether she sought to comfort herself or merely alleviate her anxiety from being stuck on a mountainside with only Thorin Oakenshield for company, but she started to hum to herself, quietly, so as not to disturb the resting dwarf a few feet away. The tune was a slow one, near dirge-like in its cadence, with notes that drifted sadly into one another, never raising so high as to bestow the song with any cheer.

It was when the dwarf's voice croaked out a short, one-word call to her that Orla startled, having thought him asleep, and the song died. Blue eyes cracked open and peered at her through the darkness, narrowing as she suddenly ceased her fidgeting when she realized his gaze had fallen upon her.

"I know that tune," he said quietly. "I heard it first in the Iron Hills."

The woman drew back in surprise, her mouth slipping open slightly before she thought to close it again. Once recovered from her surprise at his knowledge of such a song, she nodded her head.

_I as well,_ she agreed, for she had been once to that region several years ago. She had learned the song from a shoemaker who had re-soled some boots for her and he from a bar-keep, or so the shoemaker had said. Regardless of its origins, the song remained one of Orla's favorites, however sad the sound.

With a wave of his hand, Thorin rested his head back as he told her, "Resume if you wish; I know the words."

And so Orla hummed along, her voice catching in her throat when she first heard the King-in-Exile's voice rumble gently and deeply over the space between them, his words carrying as far as the night air would take them before being dragged to silence somewhere between the Lonely Mountain and the clouds.

" _The trees sway atop the mountain high,_

_A mark of that which has come nigh._

' _Twould not come again the chance for goodbye._

_This, they told a tale that 'twas no lie,_

_For the change-winds had come to carry fate 'way on a sigh._

_The road grows cold, the chill two-fold,_

_Through bone and soul, the gloom yet grows._

_Ever longer before does this dark path stretch,_

' _til the road runs out and pathless treds this lonesome wretch._

_Alas, again shall the change-winds come_

_To bear this wanderer forward on._

_The path reappears when need is most,_

_Begat by the rising sun to slay gloom's ghost._

_For this wretched wanderer's not yet done,_

_Path and pathless he treds ever on,_

_Each and ever' time the change-winds come."_

On that final note, Thorin's voice fell away and there was silence of the mountain once more. His only company said nothing to him, but drew her coat tighter around her shoulders instead.

"A true song, if there was ever one," Thorin acknowledged with a nod to his companion.

Orla preferred to nudge at the gravel by her boots rather than look Thorin in the eye in case he was to gather that she had suddenly been made weary of the song's message, liking it even less for the simple fact that he had been the one to give it voice. Changes were coming but for better or worse, she knew not. More frightening still, she knew even less of what her heart hoped those changes might be.


	25. A Bad Moon Rising

No further words were exchanged between Orla and Thorin that night. When morning came, they resumed their study of the door. It was Durin's Day and Thorin was all the more persistent for it. His eyes and hands never left the stone wall. Orla, on the other hand, stood back and watched him. She studied him warily, her brow wrinkling ever more severely as the morning wore on. She wished mightily for the others to come along but it wasn't until after noon that they arrived, the trek having not been an easy one.

Thorin set them all to work immediately. Work they did, from old Balin down to Ori they searched tirelessly for the keyhole. By evening, not a soul had found hide nor hair of it.

"Curses!" The eldest Durin railed. "Where is it? Is it not Durin's Day? Does the light not shine down this very moment?"

But there were none who could answer him. Bilbo retreated to Orla's side, no doubt afraid of being singled out and blamed for whatever reason. The woman rested her hand atop his head, her fingers playing softly in the curls there.

"I've not seen a single thing. There's nothing here but runes!" Thorin continued, his voice cracking.

Orla's hand drifted down to the hobbit's shoulder and she gave it a reassuring squeeze. He looked up at her and saw the worry on her face, deepening the lines at the corners of her eyes.

"I don't understand," said the halfling quietly.

She gave him a look as if to say, _Nor do I._

Louder now, bolstered by the support of the woman at his side, Bilbo piped up and asked, "The prophecy – what exactly were the words?"

Thorin paid him little mind and instead it was Oin who gave him his answer.

Satisfied but no closer to an explanation, Bilbo fell quiet once more. He stayed that way for some time – through the entire day and well into the edge of evening. Light was fading from the sky and with it went the exiled king's remaining hope. None among them liked to see the foretold King-Under-the-Mountain so beaten. Bilbo least of all, for he had come much too far and suffered one too many indignities and discomforts to stop now, just short of the journey's final step.

It was that determination on his part, and admittedly a bit of pressure from the much aggrieved dwarves, that prompted Bilbo to think quickly and thoroughly through the problem at hand. In the end, it was he who discovered the keyhole, lit by the very last light on Durin's Day, and Thorin who subsequently thrust in the key to open the confounded door just in the nick of time.

The removal of this large and stony obstacle would turn out to be, as fate would have it, the very least of the company's problems to come. Likewise, the rush of relief that followed would be the last they would feel for a long time.

.

* * *

.

They had not been long in the mountain, mere moments, and any awe the youngest dwarves felt was far surpassed by the elders' relief. Entering the halls of Erebor after so many long years proved to be very near a religious experience for the Company's leader. Kili, however, was not nearly so reverent in his perusal of the bleak, dusty walls, though if the question had been asked as to whether or not he was excited then the swift reply would have been "most assuredly so".

As it was, in this very mountain lay a dragon upon a bed of gold and jewels. These next few days would make for quite the tale, Kili was already convinced. Just to have a hand in the re-conquest of what had been long lost to his line was honor enough. Defeat the dragon, find the Arkenstone, and reclaim Erebor. Three tasks to be accomplished in short order. Concerning those things, Kili had no doubts or reservations. The entrance into these hallowed halls of his forefathers marked the beginning of the end of this journey. It was a fact that was not lost on the young heir.

Sensing a presence behind him, he turned to see Orla, her form silhouetted in the doorway by moonlight. She lingered at the threshold alone, all the others having gone ahead of her. A rather poetic and fanciful thought struck the dwarf in that moment. She would have been remarkably lovely, at least in his eyes, all outlined in silver and soft shadows, if it was not for the graveness of her expression. Her near-black eyes were wide and searching, tracing invisible paths here and there, darting away from the expansive darkness.

She looked so out of place amongst the stone confines of his ancestors, her body tense and poised for flight, her hands splayed like claws against the doorway, and with eyes as alive and alert as an animal that knew it was a hair's breadth from a trap.

Still, despite it all, something warmed in his belly to see her here, to be able to share this place with her. How he wished then that she might have seen it in the days of old, when the walls shown with gold and the very air smelled of diamonds. It was a romantic, fleeting notion, one long past impossible, but Kili wished it nonetheless. He wished to show this place, this kingdom under the mountain to her.

Kili's heart clenched for her, for the nerves that so clearly wracked her. He wished nothing more than to go to her then, to calm and assure her while he was able. Soon, too soon, she might be gone from this mountain, back to the road, back to her son. She had been so long out of his reach, always so stalwartly determined to keep herself from him, and it was likely she would shortly go where Thorin would never allow him to follow.

Raised eyebrows be damned, he would go to her now at least.

No sooner had he taken a step than those sharp eyes of hers flicked up to pin him to the spot. How hard her eyes seemed these days. Her gaze softened after a moment and Kili found in that observation enough encouragement to go on.

Coming to her, he held out his hand with nary a glance back at the others, well aware that they were too preoccupied to notice him.

"Worried, love?"

Something flashed in her eyes at his words, her brows falling low so that her lashes fanned out against the flesh there in flutter of silver. Kili, for all his perceptive thoughts of late, would never have guessed that look to be one of pity, and she would never have told him as much. She took his hand regardless of her reservations, slipping her small palm across his, skin to skin. Wordlessly, with nothing but and accompanying boyish grin, he thumbed the back of her hand, tracing circles lightly over the cool, scarred flesh. It did not escape him that her eyes drifted closed, coaxed shut by the simple gesture, and when the tickle of her exhaled breath ghosted over his nose and faintly across his lips, Kili could do little else than bask.

He said nothing – for once couldn't even think of anything – so all he did was beckon her forward, a promising arm outstretched to guide her into the mountain. With one more breath, she stepped from the remaining light and into the shadows.

No sooner had Orla removed herself from the threshold than the runed door gave a great shudder and drew closed behind her. Panicked, she started to draw away from him, no doubt to lunge at the sealed exit, but Kili's grip tightened around her hand and he pulled her to him. His free arm went around her waist and held her steady, half afraid she would bolt to scoop up the hobbit and retreat with him into the darkness to search for a new way out.

The woman did no such thing and Kili felt his cheeks heating in embarrassment at his lack of faith. She stilled quickly and silently. Only the light pressure of her hand being placed against his arm reminded him that she was still near him. That, he acknowledged, and her rather distracting body heat.

All around them burst forth a commotion as dwarves tried to find some way to light the now black hall. Gloin managed it first, striking the flint and stone he kept in his pocket 'til it sparked against a rusted torch sconce. No sooner had the red-haired dwarf lit it than Thorin snatched it from him so that the charge he made for Orla then might be witnessed by all. Kili's arm dropped from Orla's waist at the sight but his hold on her hand remained.

" _What,"_ Thorin growled, "did you do, woman?"

With his dark hair and hard eyes illuminated by the orange glow, Thorin looked positively monstrous. Or mad, perhaps. His nephew looked from his uncle to Orla in time to see her shake her head.

Seeking to explain and hopefully preserve cooler tempers, Kili spoke, "It closed behind her. She did nothing."

Thorin hushed him with a glare, his eyes not missing the joined hands before him. His gaze never wavering from the pair, Thorin called over his shoulder, "Fili, take your brother and scout ahead. There's a small armory off this hall. Make certain it's clear –"

Kili protested, "Surely the dragon's not sitting in an ar-"

"Now, _boy_." He looked to Orla. "And _you_ , don't touch anything."

Orla glowered back at him, the torch light much harsher against her than the moon had been, making her look almost feral. She stepped away from Kili and her hand disappeared from his arm, leaving him oddly bereft as if he had only dreamed it. In relegation he went to his brother, watching from the corner of his eyes as Orla resumed her maternal position at Bilbo's side. The hobbit looked none the happier for the development and shifted uneasily from foot to foot, leaving Kili to puzzle out why everyone in the Company seemed to be changing so suddenly.

Unnoticed, Nori went forward, not the slightest bit bothered by Durins' family drama. He studied the place where the door had sealed and, after only a few minutes, called out, "Ah, found it! No worries, Thorin. Keyhole's right here, see?"

"We can re-open it then?"

"Should be able to. Do the honors?"

"Perhaps later," Thorin agreed, "Let us explore for now. My thanks, Nori."

Indeed all among the Company, Orla especially, looked relieved that they had not been sealed inside the mountain. It mattered little in the immediate moment, however, as Kili was soon dragged away by Fili to do as Thorin had asked.

.

* * *

.

They had not long been settled in the little dim little armory – though really, it turned out to be more of a large closet with a collection of weapons in it, when Thorin decreed something that everyone knew had long been coming but had forgotten about until the very moment it was said. Bilbo had certainly thought little on the idea, which was most unfortunate because the approaching affair concerned him far more than any of the others. It was, as Thorin declared, "time for him to perform the service for which he had been included in the Company."

The hobbit was tasked, in no uncertain terms, with the recovery of the Arkenstone.

"I suppose I must try at least," the burglar sighed.

Thorin was quick to correct him. "You will _do_ , Mr. Baggins. There is no room now for trying."

"And I gather you wish me to _do_ right this very minute?"

The hard look he received was answer enough.

"Very well, then," the hobbit acknowledged, "No need to delay the inevitable."

He stood then from his comfortable little patch of real estate and proceeded to gather what scant few things he would take with him. Never before had he wished so hard for Gandalf but the Grey Wizard remained unsurprisingly absent. _Curses and confustications,_ Bilbo fretted, _a fine thing a courage-less burglar is without a wizard to help him!_

At his side, the skin-changer also moved to stand. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _I am not so alone after all._ But in his heart he had to admit that Orla did not bring him the same comfort these days. He did not like the look in her eyes since that door had closed – it was a look that was not unlike that which he'd witnessed in Mirkwood, like a family pet resting on the cusp becoming rabid. That look, thankfully, was thus far directed solely at Thorin.

"Be seated, Orla," Thorin warned from behind, his voice level but firm, "Our burglar must do this alone."

"No." Her answer was short and sharp and startled them all. Bilbo turned when he heard it.

Thorin, for his part, had the grace to look surprised.

_A mouse has no business in a wolf's den –_ it was an old saw she had always heard, passed about between rangers and travelers, more often than not directed at her when the goings became too rough. It applied now, she felt, far more than it ever had to her. Facing Thorin, the set of her jaw firm, Orla gave him a long, hard look.

_I go with him, as you promised me in Lake Town._

As was their nature, the skin-changer and the king had only two emotions which they directed at each other, respect and absolute detestation, and they switched from one to the other without running a gauntlet of lesser, politer sentiments in between. Thorin, who had been relatively calm until now, lost his temper upon confrontation with the only member of the Company whose bull-headedness sometimes rivaled his own.

Squaring his shoulders, his chin dropping low to his chest so that he could lock his eyes on hers, he said to her, "I will not see this quest jeopardized for a sorry attempt at redemption by a capricious woman! I say again, the burglar goes alone."

Now, some things are entirely the wrong things to say and the words which Thorin had just spoke ranked rather high on that list. Eyes flashing angrily, Orla drew back as if she had been struck.

_You dare?_

"Do you know of what awaits us in the belly of this mountain?" Thorin snarled, "Have you any idea of what was lost to these dwarves?" He jerked a finger at the surrounding group before striding over to the woman who questioned him. "No, beast, you know nothing. Now hold your tongue and let the burglar do his job."

Lips pressed together, nostrils flaring, Orla dared to further accuse him. _You are a liar, Thorin Oakenshield. You said nothing of this!_

Turning away from her, Thorin snapped, "Mr. Baggins gather your things!"

What followed brought all of them to their feet, for no sooner had Thorin spoken than Orla snatched hold of his shirt at the neck and hauled his considerable weight closer. For a small woman, she stood tall now, not cowed by the murderous countenance that came over the dwarf as he found himself within her grasp. Her teeth barred in a growl, she lowered her head so that her nose nearly touched his.

Thorin read the threat in her eyes, felt the burn of cloth against his throat as what little slack there was in her hold lessened. But it was Thorin Oakenshield she held and his fierceness was something that far surpassed her own.

Despite the pressure upon him, Thorin remembered their exchange in Lake Town and, in his heart, had no desire to cut her down. This time when he spoke, it was a warning rather than a threat.

"You will be gutted before you can move, wolf." Grabbing hold of her wrist, his grip bruising, Thorin wrenched her hand away, knocking her back.

"Now, be _silent,"_ he sneered, "You're good at it."

Having watched the whole exchange, Bilbo knew well that by the look in Orla's eyes she was on the verge of losing her grip on her better judgment and, frankly, the hobbit had neither the time nor the energy to watch the battle which was quickly approaching.

"Orla," the halfling spoke up gently, flinching when she whipped round on her heel to brand him with that fire-hot gaze. "I'm set on doing what I came here to do. I made a promise."

She shook her head vigorously. _Foolishness!_

"- or rather, I signed a contract, so I must get to it. All will be well, you'll see."

The anger in the wolf-woman's eyes quelled but Bilbo could see the worry that lingered there. There was hurt, too, as if he had somehow betrayed her in speaking out but she blinked the disbelief away before Bilbo could think too hard on it.

She tipped her head at him. _Be careful._

It did not and would not sit well with her, his leaving, but the burglar figured there was nothing to be done to fix it. He had made a promise all those months ago and he would have to see it through come dragonfire or riches.

.

* * *

.

After a few hours, no tell-tale roars or mountain-shaking rumbles had yet to announce a downward turn for the worse. These things aside, the dwarves were no less on edge. Orla and Thorin scowled at each other from across the room. Kili and Fili remained strangely quiet. Bofur and Bifur tinkered with nick-knacks lying around the armory. The others merely waited. All of this was, of course, done in an effort to distract themselves from the nerves worrying at their hearts.

Balin finally spoke up and regaled them all with stories of Erebor in its prime, some tales from a time before even Thorin was born. But the wolf-woman was in no mood for stories, however grand. She had so loved a good yarn once, though that seemed long ago now.

Sooner rather than later, all the company became either so enraptured by Balin's tales or by the daunting task left for one small hobbit, that few noticed the skin-changer as she stood and ghosted from the room. She did not go far, for very little of the area had been lit, but her eyes were better than most in the darkness and she wondered out of sight of the armory. She was sorely tempted to track down her hobbit, mostly just to spite the dwarf who'd told her not to, but begrudgingly she refrained from actually doing so, reasoning that if she should go after him now, she might put him in greater risk than he was probably in on his own. She was aware that Bilbo was no fool, as he had proven it time and time again. Still there was a part of her, something protective down deep below the roiling unrest she was feeling, that hated the thought of something horrible befalling him in her absence. These past few weeks he had seemed ever more determined to do without her – that fact had not escaped her notice either.

And it pained her.

Now, she was a fit to be tied and she knew as much. That's why, when she heard the telling scuffing of boots behind her, she was not at all surprised. She was shocked, however, that Thorin had allowed his nephew to follow her. Perhaps, she mused, it said something of the elder Durin's state of mind that he would let his nephew slip off after some "capricious woman" while dragons were afoot. Knowing that Kili would follow, she stomped into the first room she came to, a chamber a ways off the hall that was filled with relics from a golden day long past. She had nothing with which to light the braziers, so she let herself linger amidst the smell of mildew and cobwebs.

"Orla?"

She did not need to lay eyes on the youngest Durin to know that his broad-shouldered form was currently filling up the doorway. The wolf-woman took a steadying breath, letting her nerves settle in the comfort provided by the dwarf's presence. One glance at him, quick and almost shy in its nature, just a look to take in those warm brown eyes that were so dreadfully weighed down by the worried set of his brow. He carried with him a torch, or the sorry excuse of a table leg that passed for one, lighting the darkness and chasing away the shadows.

"That was quite the row back there. I think you might've hurt Thorin's feelings. Or," he ventured, "perhaps it was the other way around?"

All he got was a scoff, followed by a moody toss of hair as Orla whirled about to march away to the furthest corner. There was another sconce there; she fingered it, pale digits slipping up one side of the cold, cob-web covered bronze. She wished suddenly that it was lit, that she might feel the heat from its flame, however small.

Kili seemed as though he would do her one better. He followed her, only to stop behind her and reach up to slip the make-shift torch he carried into the sconce. Carefully, though not entirely shyly, he wrapped an arm around her middle, his large hand splaying across her stomach. _There_ was warmth, _there_ was support. A simple reminder that not all Durins were pig-headed and gold-blind.

Orla settled into that warmth like a babe to its mother's breast. She had no wish to fight Kili this time. He was proving to be one of the few bright lights in this forsaken mountain and she was not such a fool as to send him away for propriety's sake.

His voice was soft, partially muffled by the curve of Orla's shoulder blades, where he had pressed his forehead.

"He means well," spoke the princeling, "We've come this far. He'd not see us fail now. Don't take it to heart, love."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? _They don't see it_ , she realized, _the sickness that has begun to fester in him._ But _she_ knew. Orla knew it well, for she had experienced something not so different, not so long ago. A blackness had woven itself into her thoughts and still it haunted her. It would not leave, lingering like a bad taste in her mouth. It would be the same for Thorin, this determination of his. She could feel it in her bones.

She did not know whether to weep for Thorin or throttle him. Not even a year ago, it would have been such a simple answer. Back then, she had felt for nearly every soul she encountered, wishing to see the good in them. She still wished it; she just had to squint now to find it. Still, her vision narrowed these days when she looked upon the King Under the Mountain. Thorin Oakenshield was a good man but he was also a proud mind. And now it appeared, a greedy one as well.

Orla closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. Kili was still there at her back, stalwart, and foolish, and young.

She turned to face him but tucked her head away in the bend of his neck so that he could not see her eyes, could not see the worry etched in the lines of her face. He must have known all the same. Perhaps he was not so foolish after all, for it was with a gentle hand that he reached to draw her back and cup her cheek, coaxing her down, unresisting, to kiss her.

It was a sweet kiss, one she needed, one she no longer desired to discourage. Dragons and dwarves could wait; there was good yet to be found in this mountain.

"It'll all be fine," he whispered against her parted mouth, sounding so certain of it. "Fear not, good lady. I've got you." There was a smile in his voice – self-assured and believing every word he uttered.

Orla did believe him, though she would come to regret it, and this time it was _her_ fingers that worked into his hair, feeling the thickness of it, still soft despite the grime. From there her hands went to his stubbled jaw, glad now that he had no beard to conceal the warmth of his face from her fingertips.

Beneath her lips, his thinner mouth quirked. "Distracted already, I see."

Any other time, she enjoyed the boyish lip he gave her; it was part of his charm. Now, however, eager to chase away thoughts of danger and worry, she found she had not patience for it. Beornings were impatient people by nature and she was no different. Like a bear to honey, or a wolf to a fawn, Orla closed in on him.

.

* * *

.

The splendor of Erebor was beyond anything Mr. Baggins of the Shire had ever dared imagine. Mountains of gold as high as ten grown men filled the cavernous main hall as far as the eye could see. Jewels, lustrous and in every color, were sprinkled among the many riches, gleaming despite the darkness. Columns of carved stone stood from floor to roof, so high that the tops of them were too shadowed for Bilbo to make out.

_This_ was the kingdom of legend and truly, it was legendary. Bilbo would never forget the sight as long as he lived. The elves had their sanctuaries but this place, this _Erebor_ , was magnificent beyond measure. It was glory and greed made tangible and it was _beautiful_.

Under the spell of the horde, Bilbo stumbled dumbly down the stairs, mouth agape and limbs trembling at the enormity of it all. When his feet hit swamped in the cool metallic floor, he was forced out of his reverie, remembering that there was a dragon here. Where Smaug rested, Bilbo could not imagine, for there simply seemed to be no room. To think that among all of this treasure he had to find a single stone, Thorin's thrice cursed rock, without somehow stumbling upon the serpent's hiding place! Burglar or no, Bilbo was no longer certain he was capable of the task before him.

There was no time like the present, however, and the longer he stood transfixed by the sights, the less time he had to accomplish the job he had set out to do. And do it he must, for if Smaug did not swallow him up, or a pile of gold did not come sliding down atop his head to bury him alive, then Thorin would surely have his hide come morning.

Still, caution was a favorite way of his for proceeding, at least when dumb luck did not suffice, and Bilbo decided that he might as well be smart about this. A quick survey around would not hurt. He would gather his bearings first and, hopefully, in the process brace himself for a _very_ long night.

.

* * *

.

Under the fervor of his kiss, Orla promised herself that would see her worries banished. Kili seemed taken aback when her small hands fisted in the material of his shirt to pull him closer. His body stiffened for a moment against the nearness of hers, his lips parting in a muffled grunt of surprise.

Orla could count the number of lovers she'd had since Grimbeorn's birth on a single hand. It was not something she took lightly, nor was it something she typically longed for. As it stood, it had been a long time since she had felt for a man. She had learned long ago that pleasure often came at a price. A face, shadowed and unclear in faded memory, flashed in her mind's eye. She had not loved the man to whom that face belonged but she had been enamored with him, even fond of him, and had returned that affection with a son. She had no wish to repeat the experience, had not wished it for over a decade. Yet here, in the shadows of Erebor, a longing crept into her belly that caused her hands to tighten and twist, beckoning Kili closer still.

Three or so inches were all that was between his lips and hers by height but that distance was enough. He was young and hot-blooded enough to read her urging for what it was. Those damnable lips of his twisted again and a moment later they were gone from hers. There was a brief moment of respite before Kili's lips pressed at the base of her throat. Her mouth hung open, lungs sucking in breath after breath as she craned her chin up. The princeling was all too pleased to worry at the soft skin of her neck. He was nothing if not curious, his lips wondering downward to nip at her collarbone.

It was quite by accident that her leg found itself brushing against his hips. He gasped and jerked abruptly within in her grip and all too suddenly Orla realized why. Eyes blown wide, she stared down at him through the glow of torchlight, the rush rendering her momentarily dumb. Blindly, Kili jerked one hand away from her back and sent it out in search of the nearest wall. He stopped short of pressing her back against the stone. Her own movements halted, and she was left to stare with heavy lidded eyes at the young prince.

He looked away, cheeks blazing in shame and arousal. "Orla, I – I didn't come after you for this."

The woman before him did not know whether to be hurt or frustrated. In the end, she decided she would stand for neither. With gentle hands, she reached to turn his eyes back to meet her own. So softly that he very well could have imagined it, she murmured, "Kili."

_Look at me._

He did so and it occurred to her that hearing his name uttered from her lips was still a novelty for him.

"What do you wish of me?" he asked quietly, his breath drifting over the hollow of her throat and causing the flesh there to prickle.

"Your company," she sighed, "for as long as I may have it."

There was nothing left to say on her part and all she could see fit to do was to drop her lips to his once more. This time, she was gentle, and so was he as he wrapped his arms around her and heaved her closer. Her leg slipped behind his and pressed him down, urging him to the stone floor. He obeyed, though his arms never released her as they descended. Atop him she settled her weight, her hips pressed firmly against his, causing him to squirm and jerk upward, one hand going to the small of her back and fisting in the material there.

With a delicate touch, she brushed away the hair from his neck and ran her thumb along the skin there. He was no more immune to the feeling than she had been and he pressed his head back as she kissed a trail from his jaw down to his neck. The stubble was rough against her lips but she paid no mind, too pleased by the scrape of hair against her soft cheek to care about the marks that were left.

" _Ungh_ , there," Kili rasped as she nibbled at a place just beneath his ear. Whether it was the wolf in her that made her take advantage of his wanton distraction, there was no way to be sure, as she sprang at the chance to free her hands from the tangle of his hair and run them instead down his chest, working his shirt up and out from where it was tucked. The feel of her palms against his bare chest wrenched a groan from both of them. The hands that had thus far rested upon Orla's back slipped lower, sliding over the curve of her bottom.

Orla was left with little choice but to press her shoulder to Kili's open mouth in an effort to muffle the growl that broke from him once his exploratory kneading had been forgone in favor of raising his hips upward against the soft flesh at her bottom. The hardness of him caused her to tense and she keened loud enough in her own right, quickly burying her flushed face in the crook of his neck. Her nails clamped down involuntarily against his chest, uncaring of the marks that would be left come morning.

Orla sat up suddenly, the resulting friction leaving Kili to either follow or be rendered further into a prime example of the debauched male form, and she stripped away his duster without any further niceties. She did not have to reach for his shirt, as he had yanked it up and over his head the moment he was able. Bared before her now were those bowman's shoulders of his, muscular and cut from the finest corner of her wildest imagination. She ran her hands over his skin appreciatively, suddenly completely oblivious to their location, too entranced by the heat emanating from the body beneath her. Kili was dazed, his eyes dilated and staring as if the sun, moon, and stars had all fallen into his lap. As Orla worked the blazing muscles of his neck and upper back beneath her hands, she rocked her hips, only to be rewarded when the young Durin shuddered against her.

A wave of feminine pride over took her and she let herself bask for a moment in the reactions she pulled from him, hands and hips working in tandem to leave the male beneath her coiled with a tenseness so strong no battlefield adrenaline could possibly rival it. However rakish Kili had thought himself before this moment, he was now at her mercy – too shy to dump her backwards and ravage her, yet too impatient to spend time thinking up the words that would allow him to beg.

The wolf-woman, too, had tired of her many layers of clothes and she reached to undo the clasps of the long jacket she wore, shucking the garment off so that it pooled behind her. Her doublet followed after, as did the mithril under shirt, so that in the end she was left with naught but a breast band to conceal her upper body. Kili spent a long moment admiring the newly revealed expanse of skin, his eyes trailing from point to point, falling first on a bright pink scar between Orla's collarbone and breast, a single reminder as to where the orc rider's arrow had struck her on the plains near the Bruinen.

Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to the still tender mark. The woman in his arms jerked in surprise and tried to alleviate the sudden pressure against the sensitive patch of skin not by pulling away, but by forcing him closer. Finally, Kili relented in his worship of the scar he had all but given her himself. Sitting back once more, he ran his hands, so hot now between the torch and the woman whom he touched, up and down the curve of her waist. She had a woman's figure, with a curve naturally longer and leaner than that of dwarven women. Her stomach was soft, not that of a warrior, but was peppered nonetheless by the faintest of scars from a nine month battle fought in her youth. Across her shoulder, stretching to her back, ran a set of claw-like scars. They were deep and wide, as if something massive had struck her once many years earlier. A second, matching set dragged from her left hip to just beneath her underarm. Momentarily taken aback by the vicious appearance of the marks, it occurred to Kili that they looked oddly reminiscent of an animal attack - something huge and angry, like a bear. Gently, he ran his fingers over the raised white flesh, his fingers splayed so that they ran along the five-digit pattern. Orla shuddered beneath his touch, her eyes trailing up the scars with his hand. All of a sudden, the young dwarf hitched her close, his arms going around her back so that he could rock her gently, nuzzling the scars at her shoulder tenderly. Careful not to jerk away in her surprise, Orla pulled back so that she could peer down at him through wide, delighted eyes.

The twinkle in her gaze made it known how pleased she was that Kili seemed so very drawn to her more feminine aspects as well as the battle-marks her life had earned her, and she took the time to primp uncharacteristically, tossing her curls back over her shoulders. His attention thoroughly caught, Kili tilted his head to grin up at her. She returned the look as she reached to guide his hands to the band at her back. He needed no more urging and helped her slip the strip of cloth up and over her head. Her breasts came free with a bounce and the pupils of Kili's already saucer-wide eyes spilled to the edges in a wave of hunger. There was no time for him to reach for Orla, as she pushed away and stood so suddenly that Kili would have followed her if she had not pinned him to where he sat with a look that brooked no argument. Deft hands went first to her boots and then to the band of her black leathers and she shimmied out of them with ease so that she stood bare for Kili to see.

He sat back, admiring the way the firelight danced over her skin, casting shadows across every dip and curve. She looked the part of a predator, poised for the leap, sleek and dangerous, her body drawn back and elongated to her full height.

"You're beautiful," he managed a voice hardly above a whisper, "like a dream."

Praise was all well and good but in ten years such words had been few and far between and Orla found now that they were not needed, more satisfied instead with the way his gaze roved over her, hungry but genuinely awed by the form before him.

Dropping down to the floor once again, she reached for the coat that had been forgotten, spreading it out beneath them so as to shield their bodies from the cold and dirt of the stone. Pressing her hands against Kili's chest, she gestured him to lay back. She stayed kneeling so as to better look over him, taking a moment to appreciate the taper of his hips to strong legs and the cut of muscles across his stomach. Her next task was to remove his boots, so much larger than her own, and she tossed the footwear unceremoniously aside. Until this point, she had not allowed her eyes to linger on the area above Kili's thighs but now, as she ran her hands up his clothed legs, she took a moment to admire what awaited her. The outline of him was impressive, dauntingly so. Whether the obvious girth came from being so stout and favored all dwarves, Orla wasted no time pondering.

Curious, she extended a tentative hand for him, watching carefully for any reaction from the dwarf between whose legs she currently knelt. The muscles along Kili's abdomen clenched and he sucked in breath, causing Orla to pause long enough to meet his eyes, clearly asking in no uncertain terms for permission. Whether any woman had ever had the pleasure before her mattered not, as she was certain that between the two of them, she was the more experienced. She would tread no farther than he wished. There was no doubt left in her mind when Kili reached forward and took hold of her wrist, his fingers clasping gently enough so as only to guide her, and he brought her hand down to rest upon the swollen member between his legs.

Orla's mouth fell open and her eyes went pooled to black. A moan was torn from Kili as he dropped back, his hand tightening over hers so that she was left with little choice but to grip him more firmly. Coaxing her hand from beneath his, she trailed her fingers up to the laces of his britches and tugged. She breathed a sigh of relief when the ties came loose and Kili kicked free of the pants.

There was no respite for him, for Orla descended on his supine form in a single, graceful swoop.

_Breathe,_ she encouraged him, feeling his breath draw beneath her weight.

It would seem that he was not quite so virginal after all, as he certainly seemed to know what he was doing when he drew his legs up quickly enough to bump her forward. She dropped over him, her arms coming to rest on either side of his head. His head lifted to her breasts then, lips enclosing one rosy nipple in a searing wet heat. She gasped, forcing one hand behind his head to grip at the hair there and another between their bodies to grip him. In response, whether out of prior knowledge or plain instinct, Kili bit down softly, his teeth grazing the swollen bud in his mouth. Orla bit back a cry, her hips tightening over his and pressing herself down. Her hand, small as it was, managed to get a better grip on the hard flesh and pumped as best she could, fingers not meeting on either side.

Ceasing his laving suddenly, Kili arched back and groaned raggedly, "Enough! Orla -"

He swept her hand up and away and pulled close so that her entire body was flat against him, breasts spilling across his chest, stomach tightening atop his, and the wetness between her legs so maddeningly pressed against his enlarged member. One large hand went to the back of her head, clasping at the curls there, and he brought her lips down to meet his. His teeth caught her bottom lip roughly, suckling in the free breaths between a chorus of groans and whimpers.

When neither lover could stand anymore, Kili reached down and positioned himself at her entrance, his cockhead spreading her wide. With a snap of his hips upward, he sheathed himself. The woman in his arms pitched forward, her teeth finding his shoulder and biting down as she sought to keep herself from crying out loud enough to bring the others running.

Kili grunted against her as she rolled her hips in an attempt to adjust. Try as he might, he couldn't stifle her insistent wiggling and soon she broke free of his arms, only to lean back to her full spine's full length and brace her hands against his thighs. Wild eyed, far from the timid, gentle woman, he had first met, she rocked once, twice, and again until she had him where she wanted him. The tempo that followed was an unpredictable one as she rose and fell on him and he bucked up to close the distance and feel the tight warmth at her core once more.

Long, corkscrew curls bounced about her head, as mesmerizing as any of the rest of her, and Kili found himself torn between cupping and squeezing the bounty of her flesh and reaching to grasp at the pale strands of hair each time they fell against him. Orla watched him all the while and an oddly timed smile broke over her lips the moment she saw him meet her eyes and grin back, before screwing shut his eyes as his hands came to rest in a bruising grip at her hips.

The sight of his pleasure was all that she needed and the tightness coiling in her center sprang loose, causing her to shudder and pitch forward over him. He broke from her just in time, only to rejoin her in muffled groans of satisfaction, trembling to completion within her arms.

Together they lay in a tangle of limbs, sated and basking in one another's warmth. In her ear he murmured endearments, soothing her until she caught her breath. Her hands traced faint trails up and his chest and stomach, teasing at the rough hair. Sleep had only just claimed the young dwarf when a hand upon his cheek woke him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Orla had sat up. She palmed her eyes, trying to keep herself from curling back up against Kili as she would have preferred and sleeping away the world.

Between a few meaningful glances at the door and the hallway that lay beyond, and handing him his pants, he figured that she was suggesting they not linger.

"Perhaps we woke the dragon," he said in jest as he took from her hand that most important article of clothing.

Her face fell at the mention of Smaug, reality returning to her world, snatching her away from the man who had spent the past hour holding her. She got shakily to her feet and was fully dressed by the time Kili had his pants laced up.

He opened his mouth to speak but she hushed him, reaching instead to help him with his shirt and coat. He shrugged on the rest of his clothing and snatched up his boots while she went to wait by the door. She was not peering out but rather watching him, regarding each movement carefully until it seemed as though she might be trying to paint a picture in her mind, one that would last through all the cold nights to come.

Sighing as he straightened his clothes, Kili met the woman's eyes across the room and smiled. A hand ran through his hair, mussing it even more than their romp had managed.

"What now?" he asked, looking suddenly very lost.

She rocked back on her heels and then outstretched her hand to him.

_Now, you take my hand._

So take it he did, crossing the room in three long strides to clasp her fingers between his own.

"Orla, I –"

He was cut off when the grip around his hand tightened. _Do not,_ she pleaded silently. She knew what he wished to say and that it would be better for them both if she did not hear it. In the place of words, she bent her head down to him and kissed him once more before pulling away and leading him back the others.

The lovers had hardly made it ten feet down the hall when all of a sudden the floor gave a great shake and the walls began to quiver all around, sending dust and bits of stone sprinkling down atop their heads. A mighty bellow sounded from somewhere far away.

"It can't be!" Kili cried, gripping Orla and yanking her into his arms and away from the quaking stonework.

"By the beards of my ancestors, Orla! Boggins has gone and woke the dragon!"


	26. To All That Was, Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The fact is that we have no way of knowing if the person who we think we are is at the core of our being. Are you a decent girl with the potential to someday become an evil monster, or are you an evil monster that thinks it's a decent girl?"
> 
> "Wouldn't I know which one I was?"
> 
> "Good God, no. The lies we tell other people are nothing to the lies we tell ourselves."  
> ―Derek Landy,Death Bringer

Bilbo returned to find all of Thorin and Co. standing about, heads together and murmuring. Out of comfort and habit, every one of them had their weapons drawn. In one corner, Orla paced, her hands alternating between clasping behind her back and combing back through her wild hair. All those whispering voices rose up from the dwarves, until altogether the noise rumbled from the walls loudly, not at all discreet like whispering was supposed to be, and Bilbo thought it was a wonder Smaug hadn't come to see what all the fuss was about. One dwarf was not among them – Nori, who Bilbo desperately hoped was not there for the sake of going off to reopen that accursed door and give them a way out of the mountain. Surely, if Smaug's awakening hadn't prompted the formation of a quick and timely exit strategy, nothing in world would.

Thorin looked worse for wear in the center of the group. In the dim light, Bilbo noticed that the few strands of silver that had streaked his hair seemed to have multiplied in the few short hours since his departure. He was shaking his head, vehemently disagreeing with something Balin had said.

Perhaps faring worst of all was Bilbo himself. He was singed so badly his coattails were still smoking. His encounter with Smaug had been as unfortunate an accident as he had ever experienced and had gone rather badly once the dragon figured out that the hobbit was there to burgle away the Arkenstone. Bilbo had only just escaped being roasted alive. His curls were burnt short near the crown of his head and every inch of flesh along his back was much too warm for his liking.

The whole endeavor had been going relatively well, despite Bilbo having scouted the very edges of the vast cavern without luck. For a while, he had seen no sign of the dragon nor the jewel for which he searched. Just as he had decided to return on the grounds reporting in, he had tripped and made an awful ruckus. It had woken Smaug, who was indeed every bit as magnificent and terrible as the tales told. The ground had erupted beneath his feet as the dragon, in all his awful glory, had risen up from the massive piles of gold, stretching out like a cat after a long rest.

Smaug was a spectacular conversationalist, it would seem, as he had chatted with Bilbo for several long minutes before trying unapologetically to swallow the hobbit whole. When that had failed, the dragon had resorted to baser means – namely raining fire down on the poor burglar.

Now, he stood in the doorway, wavering on unsteady, smoking feet. In hindsight, having taken a good long look at the sight waiting for him, he thought it may have been better to take his chances with the dragon rather than risk returning to Thorin empty-handed.

_Yes,_ Bilbo thought, _this was a very bad idea. Perhaps I should just sneak back out._ He turned to go but his shaking knees chose that moment to give out and he toppled sorely to the ground.

Unsurprisingly, Orla noticed him first and she flew to his sides within moments of his hitting the ground. With a cry, she scooped him up into her arms and cradled him there, taking in all at once the sight of his crispy, ash-covered clothes and singed skin.

Various other voices rang out as the dwarves heard Orla's alarm and they all hurried over to see how their burglar fared. Thorin was loudest of them all, shoving past the others until he came to stand directly in front of the pair.

"Master Baggins, you've returned!"

The look Orla gave Thorin as he approached was an icy one. She twisted away with Bilbo in her arms, shouldering past the dwarf king and over to Oin.

"Orla! I'm fine! Really, I am," protested Bilbo. She paid him no heed and deposited him gently on his feet before the Company's resident healer. Oin wasted no time giving the hobbit a thorough once over. Though he might be nearly deaf, Oin was serious about all things medicinal and thankfully his lack of hearing had no bearing on his understanding of the healing arts.

Undeterred, Thorin was close at Orla's heels and resumed his inquiries the very moment Bilbo's feet touched the ground.

"Have you my Arkenstone?" Thorin took several steps toward the hobbit, steps which drove the sheepish burglar away from Oin and back into the nearest wall. "Let me see it."

"I – I couldn't find it," replied Bilbo, swatting away Oin's hand as the healer reached for him with a glob of ointment, "not yet, anyway. The great hall is larger than I thought and -"

Two more long steps closed the distance between the exiled king and the hobbit. Orla moved to intercept him, standing firmly in his way.

Ignoring her as he would any pest, Thorin stepped past her, growling, "What do you mean ' _not yet'_? Why have you come back?"

"The dragon, Thorin. Smaug awoke, if you hadn't noticed! I barely escaped but I-I scouted the area. I think I know where the stone might be found. I only thought –"

"Thought _what_? To waste time? To cower while that worm wallows amidst my treasure?" Outraged, Thorin knocked Oin out of the way, paying the older dwarf no mind at all. He cornered the halfling then, glowering down at him.

He roared, "You've brought the wrath of a dragon down on us all for naught!"

Bilbo shrunk back, oblivious to way the stone dug roughly into his burned backside. Suddenly a small but furious figured darted between him and the dwarf. Orla lashed out, her forearms striking Thorin squarely in the chest and sending him stumbling backwards. A hand whipped out in Oin's direction, gesturing at him to renew his treatment of the hobbit. Voices went up all around, with several dwarves – Dwalin and Bifur among them – moving to flank their leader on either side.

"You _dare?_ " Thorin snarled, having regained his footing. He straightened himself, jerking his jacket back to rights.

_You will not touch him,_ Orla scowled as she moved to better center herself between the hobbit and Thorin. _He is wounded, Thorin!_ Again, she cast a hand in Bilbo's direction.

"He will go back! Away from him, Oin," Thorin ordered, "If the burglar is well enough to run all this way, he's well enough to find my Arkenstone."

Oin paused his ministrations, looking from the halfling and back to Thorin. Finally, the healer spoke up, "The lad's not badly burned, Thorin, but he needs attention."

"Away from him, I said!"

The older dwarf hesitated but did as he was told, backing away from the hobbit and rejoining the rest of the group. Seeing this, Orla's fists clenched and she took a single step forward.

_I will not stand for this._

She turned away then and reached for Bilbo. _Come,_ she beckoned, _back to the door. We shall leave this place._

But Bilbo only shook his head. "I can't! I must go back. I've woken Smaug and he means to tear this mountain apart trying to find me. Thorin is right, Orla, this can't all be for nothing."

It appeared that his personal feelings on the matter were out of the question, for Orla moved again and this time grabbed Bilbo by the arm, ignoring his yelp of pain. She made to drag him for the door but the hobbit tore himself free after a few steps. With his chest stuck out, giving him what he hoped was a braver look, he stood his ground and refused to move so much as another inch.

"I will not go!" He snapped. "I must stay!"

_You will die!_ It was with a frightening snarl that the wolf-woman lashed out with both arms, striking a nearby rack of axes and sending them clattering to the ground. A flurry of cries went up and more than a few dwarves moved to silence the metallic racket, half of them surprised by the woman's sudden violence and the other half ready to faint from worry that Smaug would have heard the awful commotion. They had not seen the woman so violent since the day she had turned on Dwalin in the forest.

Whipping around, Orla pleaded with them. _You will all die! No jewel is worth this!_ She sent an imploring look to the doorway, back the way Bilbo had come.

"I'm going back," Bilbo declared and he brushed past her. "You've had no faith in me for a while now, though I've done nothing to deserve it."

It struck the woman that he was speaking only to her, not to Thorin, not to anyone else among their number. She shook her head, not believing his words.

"Orla," it was Kili who spoke now, stepping forward from the group. He was still flushed from their time together earlier, his cheeks full of color and his eyes bright. "Mr. Boggins'll manage. Always does, don't you, Bilbo?"

From the look she gave the young dwarf, she seemed to think that his words had been meant as a jest. _This is insanity._ She turned back at Bilbo, who stood now near the doorway. _Bilbo, please, we must go!_

"I told you, I'm not going anywhere. You go," Bilbo snapped, "if you're such a coward."

The hobbit would realize later, hindsight being such a cruel thing, that he would not have spoken to his friend this way if he had not been in such dire straits. But he was sore, and exhausted, and most of all frightened and he was only mortal, after all. His temper got the better of him there in that little armory and the words he said, as he would reflect, changed everything.

Had he stuck a knife in her belly and cursed her name and all she was, Bilbo could have wounded Orla no more gravely than he did in that moment. The woman paled, all color going from her face and eyes and her shoulders sank, and for a brief second Bilbo thought her legs might crumble beneath her.

Lost, the little skin-changer looked back to the dwarves who stood so close by. Thirteen others stood in the room with her but she was alone. Shaking her head, she fell back against the nearest wall. One foot caught the edge of one of the fallen axes, causing her to trip. The breath was knocked out of her as she hit the stone wall with a thud.

"Orla!" Kili moved to go to her, his hand outstretched, but he was jerked back with such surprising force that he cursed aloud and made to swat at whoever it was that stopped him. It was Fili who held him tight, his large hand clutching firmly at his younger sibling's arm.

Quietly, so that very few of their number could hear, Fili said, "It is but a tantrum, little brother, let her have it out."

Having heard these whispered words, Bilbo, still standing in the doorway, realized with sudden, awful alarm that they weren't at all true. This was to be no tantrum. This sad, regretful muddle of hastily spoken words, pride, and tender-heartedness was to be something much more permanent.

Orla hesitated by the wall, closing her eyes so that the darkness that had taken residence there disappeared and for a brief moment, she appeared the very picture of an innocent who was in the process of being deeply, irrevocably wronged. But for the warriors among the group, it was clear that she was defeated now and all that was left was to put her out of her misery. It fell to Thorin to do so and with his shoulders squared, he came forward and said to her, "The decision is made, wolf. Erebor _will_ be mine again and Master Baggins will be the one to help."

Orla's mouth opened and closed, her lips unable to find the words to speak now that she needed to. She had said so much these past few days, had spoken more in twenty-four hours than she had in ten years and _not a soul had heard her_.

Finally, pushing herself from the wall with trembling hands, the Bear-Man's Daughter found her voice, and she said, "I fear your hearts and minds go to a place where I cannot follow."

She was cut off by a cry from Kili. The princeling snatched himself free from his brother and rushed to her side.

"No! There is no reason for this! Orla, you have to stay, we're so close." Taking her hands in his, grasping at them with such urgency it was a miracle the tiny digits did not break, he went on, "Can't you see this is the end? We've almost done it! This is it – this is glory and the ending to a happy tale."

Unimpressed, Dwalin growled from Thorin's back, "Ach, lad! Let the dog go."

"No one asked you!" spat Kili with all the venom youth could muster.

"That is enough from _both_ of you." It was Thorin, unsurprisingly, who silenced them. Whatever anyone else's feelings on the matter, the King under the Mountain was not keen at all on the prospect of Orla suddenly fleeing from their group after she had so long insisted on staying and, as with many things that night, it would later become apparent that the streak of madness in the line of Durin was not to be so easily dismissed. As was now so clearly revealed, with that madness came a horrible suspicion that coupled with the lineage's quick minds to disastrous ends.

To Orla, he spoke, "We have given you no reason to leave, beast, lest you've happened upon one yourself."

His cold gaze leveled on her as his meaning clenched and twisted and in his eyes neither Orla nor Bilbo saw any dwarf they recognized.

"I begin to wonder if my trust in you has been misplaced. Where did you disappear to earlier this evening - "

"Uncle!" Kili protested, turning now from Orla as if to shield her.

Thorin silenced him with a raised hand.

"The boy says he went to look for you but… is it not timely that just before your return, the dragon awoke? Perhaps Smaug is not so lazy as is to be believed, perhaps something was taken from him right under his nose. _Perhaps_ the hobbit was no more than an opportune distraction. You come from a crafty folk and they are none too fond of my people. So I will ask you once woman – where is my Arkenstone?"

It was only then that the hurt that had thus far rendered Orla silent finally released its hold on her for good and she stepped away from her support. Kili reached for her but she was too quick, her steps too long as she strode past him to stand in front of the Company's leader. Only when she stood eye to eye with Thorin did she speak the last words many in the Company, most notably Thorin himself, would ever hear her say.

"I care not," the woman replied, and in her broken voice it was clear that she spoke true. "But even if you do not find it, Thorin, I sense you need only look inside yourself for a replacement. For there lies a dwarven heart steeped in stone and cold, one that beats only with the fire of greed and obsession. Keep your precious treasures," she rasped, "I am part of this company no longer."

And like that, Orla, daughter of Beorn, departed her lover and friend without a second glance, and left Thorin and Company behind.


	27. Fire and Water

Descending the mountain proved easier than the reverse had been. Swift paws trod over rock and stone as the wolf slipped and weaved down the incline. The night was quiet and had she not been of an animal's mind, the lack of sound may well have proved maddening. But there was solace to be had in the wolf and the whirling thoughts and thundering heart of the woman fell quiet for the time being.

Distance had to be put between herself and Thorin & Co. lest she turn around crawl back on her belly, meek and supplicant, sorry that her temper and pride had flown so regretfully out of control. But Orla was _not_ sorry. She was angry, hurt, and so deeply disappointed in all of them. The wolf, however, did not care; the snarl of animal thoughts breaking free of human consciousness proved a blessed release.

Well into the night the wolf moved, bound south to the edge of the lake. Morning came and only with the rising sun was fur shed in favor of two legs. The air around the lake was chill, the waters glassy and silent. As the crow flew, it would not have been much more than a league to Esgaroth. Nevertheless, the waters were treacherous, no matter how serene they seemed, and Orla had never cared for boats. As such, commandeering one of the dwarves' was not an option and she passed the empty, frost covered dinghies in favor of foot travel.

It was a chilly morning and midday proved little warmer as she followed her way around the long lake. Her thoughts strayed inevitably to Bilbo. He had called her a coward – the same hobbit for whom she had struggled all these months had ventured to use that slur against her. How many times had she protected him? Defended him from goblins, spiders, and dwarves alike? _Vicious little turncoat! Hypocrite,_ she thought. Internally, her stomach roiled. Her thoughts turned red hot and branded her between her eyes until the headache was nearly too much to bear. All those struggles, all the help she had rendered so freely had been cast back in her face. _And Thorin!_ she seethed. _A tyrant to impress Beorn himself! Foolish, desperate – lording over a dead kingdom! May the Mountain take them both!_

In her anger she had forgotten to breathe, her breath coming instead in in quick, sharp bouts through flaring nostrils and pushed out again through clenched teeth. Sucking in a breath of cold air, the fire in her lungs quelled and the burning in her chest began to ease. Eventually, one breath after another, her temper calmed and, finally, her hectic pace stilled. One hand went up to work at the bridge of her nose, kneading the flesh there until the awful ache started to abate. Her judgment was not fair, she knew well and good, for Bilbo was right when he said he had a job to do and for his part, well, Thorin was simply mad.

But they - and admittedly she herself - had cost her much. The price for remaining as long as she had was steep and only now was she beginning to pay it. For she had left one more back in that mountain, left him without a word of goodbye. _That_ was perhaps her greatest crime that night. _Kili -_ Orla did not wish to think of him now but there was no stopping the sudden regret that descended on her then and brought to her mind's eye his smiling face and the memory of his warmth. _Such a beautiful mistake…Such a fool._

Whether it was Kili or herself who was the greater fool, Orla did not wish to know. How she missed him now! She recalled the sight of him stretched out before her, his face content and sated, his eyes closed in the first real rest he'd had in Eru knows how long. That moment seemed so far away now, though it had only been the night before, and the longing in her gut was nearly enough to make her turn heel and go back.

But Orla knew she would not, _could_ not return. Not even for him.

.

* * *

.

The evening had passed into the twilight hours when Orla's lonesome journey finally brought her within view of Lake Town. All was quiet it seemed. Boats bobbed in the distance, black figures milled about as men returned home from work – all perfectly ordinary. _Serene,_ Orla concluded.

It was not long before that peaceful sight shattered. No sooner had the wolf-woman taken another step than up from the Lonely Mountain rose a terrible noise to shake the ground and ripple the water. The distant thunder of rock exploding outward caused the Beorning to turn and look back the way she had come. Smaug burst forth from the mountain, terrible in his glory regardless of the distance. Another roar broke through the air as the beast darted upward into the clouds. There was a moment's pause – the silence before the proverbial storm – and then the great worm appeared again, descending from the clouds on mighty wings and toward Esgaroth and the Long Lake.

_What have they done?_

It was with the awe-struck horror of some meek prey that Orla watched on. It was only as Smaug came ever closer, propelled by a rage that only the likes of Thorin and his dwarves could instill, that the spell was broken and Orla dared turn from the creature. The townspeople had all been drawn from their dinner tables into the streets to see what had happened. As the rickety wooden causeways filled with the disbelieving onlookers, Orla opened her mouth to scream for them. She snapped it closed again, however. There was nothing she could say that would help them, even if they were to listen.

Instead, she ran for them, bound for the narrow bridge that linked the town to the outer banks. People had begun to scatter, some running back into their wooden homes while others grabbed up small children and a scant few belongings before scrambling toward bridge. Orla reached the crossing just in time to meet the first of the townspeople, their cries building upon the chaos of the stampede as more of them flooded across the lake. There was no reason for why she fought them all, struggling her way against the wave and toward the town that would surely burn. Perhaps it was that these were the actions of someone who was no coward, or perhaps it was simply a fool's chosen course.

She had not made it far, her small body batted between retreating citizens when someone even smaller than herself collided with her. A young girl crashed to the ground with a cry, her prone form quickly overtaken by the rush of fleeing people. From somewhere nearby, Orla heard a voice cry out a name but she paid no mind. Before the child could be further trampled upon, Orla snatched her up onto her feet, intending to pull her back away from the madness. The girl fought her but the wolf-woman would have none of it, pulling the child back the way she had just come.

The pair made it back to the bank, stumbling away from the crowd and out into the open. People had begun to make for the distant tree line, others down the eastern road.

"Stop!" pleaded the girl, "Please, my brother and sister –"

Orla silenced her with a firm shake of her head. Placing a hand atop the girl's shoulder, she turned to scan the crowd, urging the child to do the same. After some amount of searching, the girl finally gave a shout, her hand rising to grip Orla's tightly.

"There!" She pointed to a pair of youngsters, a boy just slightly older than her and another girl, who bore more than a passing resemblance. "Bain! Sigrid! Over here!"

The pair's attention caught, Orla stood back, allowing herself to take a breath and observe the scene unfolding before her. No sooner had the children found each other than the bridge they had just come from exploded in a rain of fire and splinters. Orla moved to shield them, though her body was not large enough to protect the three of them and shards of wood peppered down on them, scratching their cheeks and catching in their hair. Those who had still been on the bridge were either propelled into the water or set a blaze and left to flounder on the remains of either side. All around, horrified shrieks went up but were soon drowned out by a deafening roar from above. Smaug circled the now isolated town in the center of the lake, his red, serpentine form sleek amidst the hellish orange sky.

The boy at Orla's side lurched forward, only to be grabbed by his older sister. The young woman – Sigrid, as Orla would come to know – cried for Orla to help hold him as the lad fought them.

The boy gave a holler and renewed his struggle, surprisingly strong for his age. "Father! He was on the bridge!"

Suddenly, the lad whirled to face the wolf-woman, his hands wrapping desperately in the lapels of her jacket. "Please, lady! You must let me find him."

_Settle down,_ she bade him, resting her hands just below his shoulders. The effect was lessened when a section of buildings across the lake burst into flame as the dragon circled back around. Pleading glances would do these children no good; they were too panicked, and for good reason, to have any hope of deciphering her peculiarities.

Sighing, she gave the lad's shoulders a squeeze and asked, "Your father's name, what is it?"

"Bard, good lady. He was just behind us on the bridge."

"He shouted for us to run," said the oldest girl, "So I grabbed Tilda and Bain and made for the bridge. I thought he followed –"

"I must find him!"

"Bain," Orla began, hoping to all that was good that she had called him the right name and that he wasn't actually Tilda. Hobbits and dwarves were one thing to babysit, but outside of Estel, she had no dealings with children of her own race. Estel was a proud child, quick to claim manhood whenever the chance presented itself. Hoping now that this boy would be much the same, she bent so that she was eye-level with him and told him, "Stay here, look after your sisters. Your father is not here, so you must promise me – make sure they are safe."

How strange it felt - looking down at the boy's frightened coal-dark eyes, seeing his dirty brown hair plastered across his face. She wondered in that moment if Grimbeorn might look much the same. But it was a fleeting, sentimental notion and she swept the wonder away with surprising ease. Instead, she squared herself with the lad and demanded again, _Promise me!_

Bain nodded his head, trusting in his youth and terrified enough to place his hope in a stranger. "I promise," he said.

Releasing her hold on him, she turned her gaze to the eldest child, Sigrid.

_Stay safe._

The young girl, Tilda, stepped forward to ask, "You'll find him then?"

The wolf-woman, though, had already turned to go. She weaved through the rapidly dispersing crowd toward the water's edge and the remains of the bridge. Every so often she called out for a "Bard," clueless as to how she was supposed to find a man whom she had never met. The chaos had yet to abate with Smaug still circling above, raining fire down among the town's remaining buildings so that the streets blazed. The water glistened red and orange, so that fire seemed to be all around – in the air, the ground, the very businesses and homes these people had been in not ten minutes prior.

_Damn you, Thorin Oakenshield!_ The outrage that the accursed dwarf had caused all of this was nearly enough to cause Orla to forget her purpose and for precious moments she stopped her searching altogether. Only the screams and the ensuing roar shook her from her rage and drove it back into her chest, where it could fester. Once more, she cried out for the stranger. When someone answered back, she thought at first that she had misheard, that she had imagined a strong voice among all the crying.

There was another shout and Orla knew that she had not imagined it this time. The voice came from the water's edge. She ran towards the answer, her ears sharp enough so that she could pinpoint it well enough amidst the cacophony. A man lay on the ground, his body half in the water. His clothes were waterlogged, his hair cast about his face in a smear of inky black. Orla fell at his side, her eyes searching him for any wounds. There was no scent of blood in the air, only smoke and burning timber.

One wet hand reached out to take hold of Orla's wrist as the man struggled up, his legs kicking against the water and splashing her cheek and neck. The cold jolt was enough to spur her to the reminder that the water must surely be freezing and without further hesitation, she slipped his arm over her shoulders and helped to haul him the rest of the way out.

"My thanks, m'lady," he said as he struggled to his feet. He cast off his sopping wet coat and it occurred to Orla to offer him her cloak, however small it might be for him.

Her fingers working at the clasp, she asked, "You are Bard? Your children –"

At the mention of his children, the man recovered quickly from the shock of being pulled from the frigid lake. "You've seen them?"

The skin-changer gave a short nod and pointed further up the bank. It appeared that Sigrid had moved her younger siblings a safer distance from the carnage, for the little group of three could no longer be seen from the fiery glow of the lake.

"Take me to them, madam, quickly!"

Understanding the man's urgency, Orla shoved her cloak at him without further ado and strode off toward the children.

At her heels, his voice raised high over the many cries, Bard said to her, "I recognize you – you're the woman who left with the party of dwarves."

She gave him a sideways look, unsure of what he wished her to take from his observation. _I am, yes._

"They made it to the mountain then?"

She only nodded.

"Damned fools," Bard growled and the fierceness behind his words surprised her, "this is their doing."

Orla would have seconded the statement had Bain and his sisters not come into view at that moment. They ran to meet their father and he them, embracing each of them. The wolf-woman stood at a distance, her concern over the dragon drawing her attention to Smaug rather than the reunion taking place nearby. Before long, there would be little of Esgaroth left. How many people were left in the town, she could not imagine, for there were not nearly enough along the banks to make up the entire population. Only now were a few small boats arriving at the edges of the lake, the few lucky people in them having escaped Smaug's notice for the moment.

_So much destruction,_ Orla pondered woefully, _so much loss…Thorin has much to answer for._

So lost was she in her thoughts that she did not hear Bard when he called out to her and it was not until she felt his hand at her elbow that she turned to look up at him. He was a handsome man with a face hardened by the struggles of life. Dark of hair and eye, there was something in him that reminded her momentarily of Kili. Yet where Kili's eyes were bright and hopeful, Bard's gaze seemed almost cold despite the fire raging all around. There was calculation there, careful but quick, and an unnerving strength that Orla had only ever seen among the few rangers she had met in her travels. Few men had that look and fewer still used it to their advantage.

Bard, as it would turn out, was one of those men. He was not the type to linger in relief when action had yet to be taken. No sooner had he turned his children loose did he turn the two older siblings and order them to take their little sister up to the tree line and far away from the destruction.

"Aren't you coming with us?" asked Tilda.

Bard shook his head, one hand going out to brush the young girl's cheek. "I cannot. This dragon must be stopped."

"But, papa –"

Bard hushed the girl, his hand slipping through her hair. "Go with your brother and sister. Bain," he looked to the boy, "eyes sharp."

"Yes, father."

There was not much else to be said and the children were led off by their older sister. Bard looked back at Orla. She knew that look. She had seen several like it a time or two since this adventure started.

Now, with those types of looks often came ill-advised plans, though she was not expecting something quite so ill-advised as, "I must to get back to the town."

One eyebrow quirked up, practically into her hairline. _I beg your pardon?_

"There is an arrow – it can bring the beast down."

_But you don't have it?_

"Words, woman!" Bard shouted, but when he received none, he went on, "I am no madman but I cannot linger here. My bow is there as well and the arrow I speak of–"

Orla, for her part, was looking thoroughly unimpressed and Bard must have seen it, as he ceased his explanation immediately. "I thank you for your help, but you must get to safety. Go, now."

He managed two long strides before he realized Orla was at his elbow, her eyes set hard toward the town.

"Go, I said," Bard waved at her, though he did not slow his gate.

Orla would not be driven away and undoubtedly the man came to the conclusion that he did not have the time to argue with her. She would not sit by and watch Smaug level all of Esgaroth, not when she might aid the man who aimed to clean up Thorin's mess. While it might be bravery that drove the man at her side on, it was good old fashioned spite that made Orla quicken her step so that she could keep pace with him. For if she could help bring down the damnable dragon circling above, she would have that much on those who had driven her away.

She and Bard reached the lake moments later and he motioned for her to clamber up into the nearest boat. It was a small row-boat and looked no more sea-worthy than a stone. But it had obviously enduring the ugly crossing for those who had rowed it this far and it would hopefully hold out long enough to get the unlikely pair back. Bard stood at the bow, knee deep in that awful, cold water, and gave the boat a solid shove away from land before hopping up into it. He grabbed the oars and began to row across the long stretch of water with a speed and know-how that would have impressed the woman had she not been too preoccupied with worrying over being burned to a crisp or sinking to the bottom of the lake should they go down.

Seeing her nervousness, Bard nudged her foot with his boot. She tore her eyes from the serpentine form in the sky to look at the man across from her.

He spoke softly, his voice low now that they were far enough away from the screams on the shore. "If he comes for us, do not hesitate to leap into the water. It's not as cold as you think and it's better than being roasted alive."

Orla scowled at him unhappily, having been managing her own fears well enough without him having to go and voice them aloud.

Thankfully, Smaug did not notice them and they docked at one of the few landings that had yet to catch fire. It was a small mercy that the town was built primarily of wood and certainly Smaug was wise enough to know better than to land his overlarge carcass anywhere for risk of sending the plank-board streets crumbling into the water. Orla was up and out of the boat before Bard and reached to help him, pulling him up from the little craft's unsteady bobbing.

"This way," he told her as he took the lead, slipping along the narrow waterways. Their path was diverted many times, the way having either been blocked by fire or already burned into the water. Once, Smaug came round just over their heads and Orla only just managed to snatch Bard back against a clapboard wall just in time. Other screams drew the dragon's attention and he went on. Whether or not those screams came from someone being burned alive or merely scared out of their minds, Orla would think on another day.

Together they reached what she assumed was Bard's home. The roof had caught fire but the man paid the damage no mind.

"Wait here," he instructed her, only to disappear up the stairs before she could argue.

Grumbling to herself, Orla did as she was told and fell back into the shadows of an overhanging awning. It was not long before Bard came bounding back down the stairs, two quivers full of arrows and a yew longbow in his hands.

_Have you not another bow?_ Orla queried silently, eyeing the weapon meaningfully.

If Bard understood her question, he did not show it and instead charged past her. "We must make it to the Master's tower," he explained, "It's the highest point in the city."

_Must we?_

Orla looked about. The Master of Lake Town was unknown to her except by reputation. He was as disreputable a man as she had ever heard of but his personal tastes for grandeur – or rather what passed for it in a place like Esgaroth – might benefit them in this particular situation. On her earlier visit, she had seen his home at the center of the city and it was no doubt the tallest of any building, with a tower that rose up a solid story above even the guard towers.

_If it's still standing,_ she thought dismally.

With the fires blazing all around them, they hurried toward the town center. By some miracle, Smaug had yet to topple the tower of the Master's home. They cut across the square as fast as their legs could carry them but to their dismay, when they bounded up the stairs and reached the heavy wooden door they found it locked tight. With a curse, Bard slammed his hand against the door.

"The yellow bastard!" he spat.

He went on to say something else but Orla did not dare waste time listening. The nearest window was mere feet away, ugly and stained a dingy red, and Orla figured it would be no great loss if she should smash it. She had never smashed a window before and was oddly giddy over the prospect, turning here and there to look for something that would accomplish the job. The only item nearby was an empty lantern and without thinking too much of the mess she would make, she snatched it up by its metal handle and swung it against the glass pane. The window was as cheaply made as it looked and the glass gave way with one more solid lick, shattering inward with a loud crash.

"That'll work," Bard acknowledged, "Up you go."

Boosting Orla up, Bard sent her up and over so that she tumbled into the building and landed with a thud. He followed quickly behind her. Under any other circumstances, Orla may have taken note of how filthy the interior was but time was of the essence and unkemptness had little bearing on whether or not Smaug would burn the place to the ground.

Gesturing to his right, Bard urged Orla to the stairs. "All the way up," he said, "Hurry!"

He was left to take the steps two at a time as the little shape-shifter flitted lightly up to top landing. A dead-end wall was all that was there to greet them. Only a tiny, little-used latter led up to the trapdoor at the top. Orla scaled up the rungs and unlatched the door before shouldering it open and emerging into the night air. For a day that had been chilly with dying breaths of fall, the night was hellishly hot. Flames licked up at buildings as far as the eye could see. Entire sections of the town had fallen into the water, taking with them homes and belongings, uncaring of the families that would be left destitute. Even the lake itself burned, swallowing with a gaping red mouth all within it.

At the center of all the destruction was Smaug. With enormous red wings he beat against the wind, sending it to do his bidding and spread the hellfire's disastrous reach. In all her travels, Orla had never seen such a magnificent creature, so great and terrible in his power. _This_ was the monster Bilbo had encountered and barely survived. How strange that a hobbit would have even the slightest chance of escaping something as wondrously powerful, for as Orla looked on the great dragon now, it seemed to her that the undertaking of killing the beast would be impossible for an army, much less two people who had little trust in each other.

A deafening laughter erupted from Smaug and again he swooped low. This was sport for him, Orla realized; he was toying with the Men of the lake and reveling in their sorrow. Their homes had gone and soon the smoking skeleton of the town would be no more. Smaug would hunt them all down, every family that ran. They would _burn_.

And they had done _nothing_ to deserve it. Esgaroth's greatest transgression had been to offer aid to a company of dwarves who cared little for the very people who had helped them.

Whipping around to face the bowman at her back, Orla narrowed her eyes at him and gestured to the dragon. _Kill him!_

"He will fall," Bard assured her, pulling his yew bow from his back, "By my ancestors, he will fall."

Drawing back the first arrow, Bard raised the bow and took aim at Smaug's neck. He loosed the arrow. It struck true but did no good. Indeed, Smaug hardly seemed to notice the attack.

"Haha," he roared, whirling in the air, "fight back, mice, with your twigs and your needles! And when the bravest of you run, I shall be the sun at your back to burn you! I am King of all. I _am_ Smaug!"

For every word Smaug uttered, Bard fired an arrow until all but one were spent. With each failed shot, Orla's stomach sank. These peoples' lives could not end this way - all prey, even dragons, had a weakness, no matter how terrible their bite. The hunter had only to find it. Deer were fearful, goblins had their stupidity, and humans were weak of will. A wolf that could not spot its target's weakness would not last long in the wild and Orla had lasted longer than most; it was her keen eyes that spotted what would be Smaug's downfall.

One hand lashing out suddenly, she pointed for Bard to look. Under Smaug's left wing was a scaleless patch of exposed flesh, unprotected by dragon hide and not far from where his black heart beat within his chest. Drawing his last arrow, one made from the blackest of metal, Bard drew the bowstring back to his ear. The arrow flew from the archer with a snap and sped straight for Smaug, where it struck him in that single soft patch of skin, sinking in until barb and feather had buried deep.

With an ear-splitting howl, Smaug shot upward, his wings wrapped around his great body, before suddenly plummeting again. He fell straight for the town, shrieking all the way, bound to strike Esgaroth at its heart.

"We must jump!" cried Bard. Orla, shaken from her disbelief, stumbled to the railing of the tower. Many feet below, the market-pool, the centermost waterway of the city, lay waiting to catch them with icy, red-black waters. To jump would be to risk dying of cold or drowning but to stay would surely make them the last of Smaug's victims.

"Leap!"

Orla did not hesitate further, steeling herself and climbing up onto the railing. Bard leapt up at her side and before she could step off on her own, his weight was already pulling her away from the tower. They plunged down together, striking the water just as Smaug fell upon the remains of Lake Town. Black water swirled above the wolf-woman's head, the world above a hazy blur of golden light and darkness. Something hard struck her from above, knocking the breath from her in a watery spray of bubbles. All around, beams and bits of wall and walkway drifted slowly down to the depths. Up seemed so very unclear as her body spun and swirled and as the surface faded, she wondered if perhaps she had been better off in the mountain after all.


	28. Burning Regret

Over the course of the past several months, Bilbo Baggins had been many horrible places and seen many horrible things, the least of which would continue to haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future. All of those awful things taken into account, the moment which he had seen Smaug, scalded with molten gold and enraged beyond measure, burst forth from the mountain and disappear on gilded red wings toward the innocent city on the lake had been so forever burned in his memory that he rather imagined he would think of it even in his dying hours, however near or far away those may be. For Thorin and his dratted company had led the dragon on a merry chase through the mountain, only to come to the conclusion that they were simply not equipped for dragon slaying so they best just endeavor to make Smaug as angry as they possibly could and point him in the direction of somewhere that wasn't Erebor.

Dragon-free, Thorin had wasted little time fretting over the hundreds of innocent fates he had undoubtedly just sealed and, in no short order, had begun setting the now vacant kingdom to rights. Bilbo himself had kept at a distance, for he no longer had a protector to save him from Thorin's wrath. Orla, as cross with her as Bilbo was, was hopefully safe behind a rock somewhere and not anywhere near Lake Town. Bilbo assured himself that she had not had time to reach Esgaroth just yet and she would no doubt escape Smaug's notice. What he did not take into account was that he was figuring her travel-pace at hobbit speed, placing it at a merry jaunt rather than a skin-changer's restless to-and-fro. As it was, he had no way of knowing that Orla had indeed reached Lake Town and had been front and center to witness Smaug's descent on the unsuspecting people there.

To think too much on Smaug and the havoc he was undoubtedly wreaking would surely cause him to go mad, so Bilbo did his very best to focus on finding the Arkenstone as he had promised. The whole misadventure with the dragon had thrown an unpleasantly large kink in the whole effort and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he ought not just wait for Gandalf before handing the troublesome little jewel over to the absolute nutter who was currently prancing around overseeing his work this very moment. Thorin, for his part, remained looking disturbingly unperturbed by the dragon's absence, having settled upon his dark head a shiny bejeweled crown that either he or Balin had dug up somewhere. Bilbo found himself knee deep in a pile of coins he had been sifting through, thus rendering himself unable to flee when he spotted Thorin marching down the nearest flight of stairs.

"Burglar!" called the newly-minted reconquerer. "How goes the search?"

Tossing aside a ruby the size of a tea cosy, his head falling back in disappointment, Bilbo snapped, "Oh, not so different from the last time you asked, Thorin."

Thorin was undaunted. Indeed, he seemed baffled by the lack of progress. "Do you think it not prudent to hurry your search? What stands in your way now that the worm is gone, _burglar?_ "

"Nothing except a literal mountain of treasure," scowled the hobbit, "Truly, you dwarves excel in many areas but, Thorin, moderation is not one of them. So, a moment or two of patience would be appreciated. _Please._ "

"Do not –"

"Thorin! Bilbo!"

A new voice carried over the piles of gold, nearly impossible to pinpoint from of the echo in cavernous space. It was not until a fair head rounded the corner of the steps Thorin had just came from and Fili appeared that the pair knew who had spoken. In his arms, the young dwarf carried a large crate full of all manner of gems and various shiny things. He sat it down, groaning gratefully to be free of the weight.

Thorin eyed the crate and the dwarf who had carried expectantly.

"I gathered these – figured you might have a look through and –"

"My Arkenstone is not among these bobbles."

Fili frowned. "How can you –"

"Do you not think you would not know it when you see it, boy?"

Thankfully, Fili was wise enough not to respond with anything other than a supplicant shrug. Thorin, satisfied, stretched out his booted foot and tipped the crate so that all its riches spilled atop the golden floor, a few pieces skittering to a stop near Bilbo's submerged ankles. Fili, to his credit, spared the hobbit a sympathetic look before moving to right the box once more.

Thorin waved him away. "Do not bother to waste your time further, Fili. Where is your brother?"

"Off pouting, last I saw him." Fili motioned to some nondescript location behind him, no doubt unwilling to reveal poor Kili's location and thus subject him to Thorin.

Thorin grunted roughly. "Pining for the wolf, no doubt."

At his words, Bilbo frowned. Kili had not spoken to him since Orla's rather dramatic departure; indeed, the youth had only looked at the hobbit as if he were suddenly some unknown stranger – an enemy to be mistrusted and disbelieved at every turn. Bilbo supposed he did deserve some of the blame for running Orla off, though truly most of the fault lay with Thorin, not to mention with Orla herself. As it was, Bilbo could not rightly bring himself to worry too terribly much at the moment. Surely, he convinced himself, Orla would be fine. She would be much better off now that she was free of dwarves and promises and whatever else that disturbingly muddled mind of hers could think of to protect. He found himself hoping that she was on her way back to her family. It would be a good change for her, to finally attempt to know her son, to protect him rather than Bilbo or Kili. Or at least, that's what Bilbo thought.

Shaking off the melancholy that threatened to take hold of him at the nagging thoughts about Orla, Bilbo struggled to free himself from the gold he was slowly sinking into and then had another look around. Where would he be if he was an Arkenstone? Near the throne, he supposed. Somewhere where he could have been ogled and put on display. That throne was halfway across the vast cavern and to go to it seemed as good an excuse as any to rid himself of Thorin.

"Well, I best keep looking!" chirped Bilbo, hurrying away before Thorin could say much else. The hobbit did not have to look behind him to know that Thorin's eyes did not leave him for a long while, bearing down on him with a palpable weight he thought might drive him right down into the sea of gold. But Bilbo kept going, scrambling up and down piles of treasures, until finally Thorin turned away and left the hobbit to his own devices.

.

* * *

.

The morning sun rose to find Lake Town hardly more that cinders. After a day and a half of burning, there was little left of the city on the lake. Smaug's destruction at the hands of Bard had not saved all the town but it had saved most of its people. The giant serpent was gone, dead in a watery grave, and had all the taverns not been burned down then they may have been filled with relieved revelry. But the taverns, the homes, and the stores had nearly all been leveled, either by dragon fire or the crash of Smaug's massive body as he fell, a black arrow buried deep in his chest. There was little to celebrate; most people of the Lake merely sat back, held tight to their loved ones, and gave a collective sigh of relief.

It should have felt like a new day, one admittedly marred by the smell of ash on the wind, but it did not. A shadow was descending, the beginning of something worse than Smaug's recent desolation of the town. This was to be something bloodier, a grim approaching storm with an aftermath even the youngest babes would recall at the end of their days. The dwarves of Erebor had wrought horrible wrongs against their human neighbors, be it their intention or not, and those wrongs were not to be easily forgiven.

In a little makeshift tent off the banks of the Long Lake, the skin-changer rested, her body gripped with fever and badly bruised. Beside her sat Sigrid, Bard's eldest, her young eyes weary from waiting but determined to keep watch over the woman who had helped her family. After Bard had dragged the woman's body from the frigid water, there had been some doubt as to whether she would draw breath again. There had been so much water in her lungs and her head had been badly bloodied near the left temple where something heavy had struck her, that it had seemed hopeless. But haul her limp form out from the water Bard had done all the same. He was a fisherman and had seen enough near-drownings to know how to help her.

Now, the wolf-woman slept, unmoving save for the irregular rise and fall of her chest.

A rustle near the mouth of the tent caused Sigrid to start, jerking the girl from her memories as she all but leapt to her feet. She calmed again when she recognized her father as he slipped inside. He looked haggard – more so than usual. He had slept little, so caught up in helping those in worse shape than himself, and it had begun to show around his eyes and in the tired slump of his shoulders.

"She still has not woke?" Bard asked quietly, eyeing the Beorning on the cot nearby.

"No, sir. She hasn't so much as moved." Sigrid looked back over her should, only to turn away again and shake her head sadly. "She helped us. When Bain and I lost Tilda on the bridge, she kept her safe. Bain, too, when he wanted to run off and find you. She went in his stead."

"Aye," Bard responded gently, "I know."

Sigrid gave a sigh too heavy to come from someone her age, her hands fisting at her skirts as she did so, visibly disquieted. "I've been her with her for hours and…her name, what is it?"

Bard frowned, his eyes trailing back to the unconscious woman. She had come out of nowhere, a confirmation of his fears. He did not have to ask to know that she had been driven out of Thorin Oakenshield's company. He knew little about her, only that he had glimpsed her fair curls and the wariness in her gaze as she had departed with the stone children that fateful morning. Why she had been with the dwarves, he still did not know. But the way which she had all but clung to the halfling's side as they boarded the little boats out of town had given him cause enough to assume she was hardly more than a babysitter. Yet, babysitters did not venture into mountains with princes of old and neither did they drag strangers from lakes nor brave flame and ice alike to save townsfolk who were not even their own.

His frown deepened as he finally confessed, "I…do not know it."

Even in her sleep, the woman looked as though she might jerk awake and burst into tears at any moment. Lines that shouldn't have been there were carved in the corners of her eyes, shadowed by dark rings, while scars and freckles stood starkly out against pallid skin. Studying her now, Bard found he couldn't tell if she was twenty or forty.

He looked to his daughter then, suddenly terrified that Sigrid might turn out much the same. What if the worry on her face never left her? What if, in all the nights to come, the sights and smells of her home falling down around her never for a moment slipped from immediate memory, the screams of people she knew burning alive never stopped ringing in her ears? He reached for his eldest child then and pulled her to him, resting his chin atop her head as he held her close. He did not wish for Sigrid nor Tilda to be like the woman they so dutifully watched after. He did not want his daughters to one day look in the mirror and find the all the wrongs they had witnessed staring back at them. That is what Bard of Lake Town saw when he looked upon the Bear-Man's daughter. Sadness…anger…and horrible, _burning_ regret. She was a woman whose life had gone horribly wrong somewhere along the way, leaving something in her so near the precipice of breaking, even a stranger could sense the danger.

"Go find your sister," Bard instructed his daughter, abruptly turning her loose. "Get some rest."

"What about you, father?"

"I will watch over our guest here for a while. Go on."

Sigrid saw no use in arguing, for she had tried and failed doing so with Bard before. "As you say, father," she said and gave him one last hug before hurrying from the tent.

Sighing to himself, Bard moved to grab the chair Sigrid had been using and carried it the short distance to the cot before sitting it down with a gentle thud. Rather than sit down, he went instead to the only other bit of furniture in the tent, a small, salvaged table with a pitcher and basin of water sitting atop it. There, he poured a small cup full and brought it with him to the bedside. As feverish as she was, the woman needed to drink – provided he could rouse her long enough to get the liquid down her throat. Sigrid had been too timid to shake the woman and Bard was likewise wavering as to whether or not to disturb her. Still, it had to be done. There were friends and neighbors all about the camp in worse shape than she and they had not received such gentle treatment. Sitting down, the cup in one hand, the bowman reached out and gave Orla a solid shake.

She did not stir, so he tried again. "Come, now," Bard said, his voice hardly more than a disinterested grumble, "wake up."

There was no response. He did not have the patience for bedside nursing. Leaning forward, he spoke a bit louder.

"Wake up!"

Orla gave a single shuddering breath, one deeper than he had her take before, her head lolling restlessly from one side to the other. It was too much progress to let slip away, and Bard gave her a few firm but gentle slaps on the cheek. It was enough to stir her, for no sooner had he pulled away than did groggy, bloodshot eyes open to peek miserably up at him beneath near invisible lashes.

"There's a good lass," Bard commended her, "You need to drink something."

Orla's scowl only grew sharper despite her bleary eyes when Bard moved to place the cup at her lips. She was clearly not so weak as to be unable to raise her hand, as she took the cup from him and swatted his fingers away. Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed at the contents and she turned her gaze to peer dubiously at the lake water within the cup. Bard watched her carefully as she finally gathered her nerves to tilt the cup back and gulp down the contents. When she had finished, she primly passed the empty cup back to him and settled down onto the cot once more.

She looked better awake than she had asleep and Bard wondered if she might drift off again before he was able to speak to her. It would be no great loss; there was much to be done and little time to waste playing nurse. Yet, part of him understood that this stranger had braved the wrath of Smaug at his side and he felt honor bound to at least see that she had recovered from her plunge into the lake.

Sitting back against the chair, Bard folded his arms across his chest and waited to see if she would perhaps speak. She did no such thing, of course. Instead, she only turned her head away from him, looking instead at the dingy tent wall beside her.

"You look entirely too angry for someone who is supposed to resting –"

At once, she turned to look at him again and this time her eyes silenced him with a single hard look. She had such dark eyes – dark and oddly cold, not unlike the lake. They were a cruel grey, the color of ash. Bard did not like the look of them now that he'd seen them in the light of day. They should not have been the eyes of a woman who kept a group of children safe from harm while their father was missing.

The wolf-woman struggled to sit up as soon as the man at her side ceased antagonizing her. A pair of slender arms crossed over her chest once she had righted herself. Though she was clearly weak from the fever and the bad hit she'd taken, it did little to hide the fact that she was, in fact, very perturbed. Bard could guess that much at least.

"Your name?" he asked after a moment. "What is it?"

Her rely was short and came only after a rough, choking cough. "Orla."

A simple name; a sweet name. Bard did not think it suited her. Now that she was awake, he pressed on, "You traveled with the dwarves, left with them, and came back alone. Why?"

Orla's scowl turned into an outright glower and her arms tightened around her chest. Why had she left? That was a question she was not sure of herself. Pure obstinacy was the most likely answer. The fact that Thorin Oakenshield was an absolute prick was merely a contributing factor. Never mind being called a coward. To think on _that_ now would be to subject Bard to an unearned fit of Beorning temper.

Bard grumbled something unintelligible when she did not answer him and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He would have a headache before this conversation – if it could be called such – was through. "You are as contrary a female as I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. Answer my questions."

Orla gave a toss of her head before looking away stubbornly. _I've answered half of them!_

"Must you – bah!" Suddenly, Bard stood up. "I haven't the time for this. I thank you for your help with dragon. It was unexpected and…brave of you."

He did not see the change that overcame the woman at his words, how the shadow over her seemed to recede momentarily as her cheeks lifted in a pleased smile. He had called her brave because he felt it was true, with no idea of what such a statement might mean to her.

Bard moved to leave but had barely made it to the exit before he felt the woman's hand catch him by the forearm and pull him around again. How, in her condition, she had gone from the cot to standing at his side as quickly as she did, he couldn't begin to fathom. The impressiveness of the feat diminished some when he saw her sway on her feet, one small hand going to the gash at her temple and the other loosening around his wrist.

"Sit back down," he urged her, gripping her shoulder to steady her. She was such a small woman. She looked as though she should have the constitution of a child but when she shook off his helping hand and turned her head up to glare at him, Bard could not help but feel as though he was staring down at the eyes of something much fiercer than a mere wisp of a woman.

_Wait a moment,_ her eyes begged of him, _please._ She looked about, swayed once more before steadying herself, and proceeded to run her hand through the tangle of curls atop her head so many times Bard lost count. Words almost made it out of her mouth a few times over but each time her jaw seemed to lock shut of its own accord. What she was fretting over, he couldn't be sure of until she managed to tell him. _If_ she managed to tell him.

When she did speak, Bard had to lean nearer to her in order to make out the words. Her question clearly was not one she wished to be asking aloud and her previously furious eyes would not meet his as she spoke, "T-the dwarves…are they…"

Settling back, unsure of what to make of her concern, Bard replied, "We have received no word from the mountain." He took a breath, his own anger rising as the thought of the bastards who had woke Smaug from his slumber. His next words were not said to hurt her, but were spoken nonetheless with a truthfulness that caused his voice to tremble. "In truth, I hope it remains that way, my lady. I wish nothing more than for that cursed dragon to have made that place a tomb for them all."

Orla's eyes widened at his words and for the briefest of moments, her anger seemed to give way to something else. He thought she was about to respond when a sudden, shuddering cough she had been suppressing wracked her body. Orla gave him one last good frown, as though she wanted to let him know she was unforgivably cross with herself for what was no doubt about to happen, and then her legs gave out and she dropped to the ground before the bowman could think to catch her.

.

* * *

.

Despite Bard's wishes, the Lonely Mountain had not become a tomb. Not for Thorin and Company, at least. Within its stony depths, one dwarf walked apart from all the others. Twelve of the thirteen dwarves were scattered about the vast halls of Erebor doing whatever tasks had been set before them. Kili had been given several tasks and had done none of them. He did not have the foggiest idea where he had wondered off to, but his ears still rang from the tongue lashing he'd received that morning. It hadn't been Thorin or even Dwalin who had finally tired of his melancholy, but Fili. His elder brother had not meant to scold him when their argument had started but that's how it had ended – with Fili shouting words Kili didn't care to hear. " _Stop whining, Kili," "You're acting like a girl, little brother,"_ and " _grow a pair"_ had been among Kili's favorite lines. Thankfully, the argument had taken place out of earshot of Thorin or else Kili's pride would likely have been in far worse shape.

Now, he wandered the halls of his ancestors, hands shoved in his coat pockets, content to be far, far away from everyone else. Erebor _was_ grand, admittedly. But it _should_ have been grander, it _should_ have meant more. There _should_ have been a dragon mounted above the throne. A woman _should_ have her hand snuggly in his.

Should, should, should. Kili was tired of _should_. Stories weren't supposed to be about should haves, could haves, or would haves. How certain he had been a few days ago that Bilbo would find the Arkenstone, that Smaug would fall to good, old fashioned, dwarven hack-and-slash, and that Orla would have been there to see the story in all its glory. But none of that had happened.

It _should_ have. But it hadn't.

Smaug had flown the coup, as it were, and Mahal only knew the havoc he had caused after the dwarves' failure to stop him. Of all the things, the dragon was never supposed to _get away_. Thorin, for his part, didn't even seem concerned and that unsettled Kili far more than anything else. His uncle was a hero – the dwarf who had led the survivors out of Erebor to rebuild anew. Yet, the more Kili looked at him, the less of the legend he saw. That was why Kili kept his distance; not because Thorin had effectively put his steel-toed boot in Orla's rear end, but because the thought that his uncle wasn't _right_ was very nearly too much for Kili to bear.

And Orla…Kili stopped in his tracks every time he thought of her, only to get lost in thought so long he forgot completely about what he was doing or where he was going. She was gone. Orla was gone. She'd left him, them, and the stupid hobbit who'd up and called her the worst thing he possibly could have.

It was almost like a dream, something not quite real. Kili wasn't so foolish as to think she actually would have stayed for him, not forever anyway. But he had thought he would have more time. More time to tell her that he really, desperately didn't want her to leave, and if she had to, that he hoped she would come back someday. Bring her son and stay a while…or something, by Mahal, he didn't know.

And the things she had said before she left! Kili could still hear the words as she spoke them. She had sounded so hurt, so bitter, so _betrayed_. For her to be labeled a coward was unthinkable. Kili felt the disgust roiling in his belly at the thought. Orla had thrown herself on an arrow for him and she hadn't even known him. She had braved the wrath of her father and walked away from her son for _them_ , had all but lost her mind in Mirkwood and fought so hard to regain it. She had protected them and guided them and the damned burglar called her a coward?

And what had _he_ done?

Kili had practically stood back, hardly an hour after taking all she could give, and left her at the mercy of the others. By the stone, he could still _smell_ her – on his clothes, his arms, his hair. She had fought him so for months, determined not to be swayed by his smiles and winks, and as soon as she had closed her eyes and plunged with him from the point of no return, he had just let her walk away. He'd _let_ the others drive her from his life. Hardly put up a fight. Hadn't had the stones to go after her and convince her to stay.

The thought made Kili sick.

The realization that he might never see Orla again made him sicker.

.

* * *

.

Three more days passed and the wolf-woman fell in and out of consciousness. Bard did not know it but months of strain on Orla's mind and body had finally caught up with her. In the brief minutes she was awake, she uttered not a sound, nor cast a single glance or glare. She was stewing, the worry on her face becoming ever more visible. Something troubled her, the whole of which Bard had yet to wring from her. But between helping the people of Lake Town put up a half-decent camp and worrying over the coming storm, Bard had little time to press the woman for answers – he would do so if and when she awoke.

He was tending to the more seriously wounded, most of whom had been burned so badly some would likely die before the week's end, when he saw Orla emerge from the tent that had previously confined her. Her boots were dragging, her body frailer than it had been, but she was steady enough on her feet.

The bowman looked up from his task of re-bandaging an elderly man's arm, his fingers stilling from their task. Orla scanned the dozen or so of the badly wounded until her gaze finally came to rest on the single healthy man in sight. She did not need to be waved over, coming of her own accord to kneel at Bard's side. She did not spare him a glance, rather she looked instead down at the squirming man whose raw, wrinkled flesh was open to the chill air.

Wordlessly, Bard pulled the rest of the old bandage away.

"Can you clean a wound?" he asked finally.

It took a long moment for Orla to look back at him, blinking as though she hadn't heard what he'd said.

"I said –"

But she was already shaking her head. She had never bandaged anything other than nicks and scrapes and those had mostly been on herself.

Before them, the old, burned man groaned. Orla flinched at the sound, jerking away and up onto her feet so suddenly that even Bard was startled. She looked so immediately angry, so outraged, that Bard found himself bracing for the worst.

Through clinched teeth, she hissed a single question. "How many?"

"Seventeen of those who made it to shore," Bard answered, "maybe more before it's over."

Hatred and indignation – that was what Bard read in the woman's expression. Orla turned to look behind, back at the Lonely Mountain, its peak looming in the distance, taunting and ugly. Her hands began to shake after a few sharp breaths until she clenched them shut. The anger in her eyes did not subside but eventually she turned away from the mountain. Bard had since started to clean what was left of the old man's arm as best he could and he did not pause in his ministrations when Orla knelt once more at his side. She did not look at him, nor did she say a word, she only leaned forward to place a surprisingly tender hand against the old man's cheek. Her anger turned to silent tears and Bard did not have the heart to protest when she reached for a clean bandage and set to work.

.

* * *

.

Thranduil's Elves arrived on the banks of the Long Lake two days later as a scouting party of twelve. Leading them was the perpetually confused, ever puzzled visage of Thranduil's heir, Legolas, who looked about as appalled at the destruction caused by Thorin Oakenshield as either Orla or Bard had been. The bowman, along with a handful of other men from the camp, met the elves at treeline. Orla, for her part, stood back, though it was less out of choice and more because she had her hands full helping Tilda distribute rations. The skin-changer dearly wished to know why an isolationist such as Thranduil would send his son and a group of his finest scouts out from the debatable safety of Mirkwood forest. Certainly, they were not there to help, for wood elves never simply _helped_. The elf-king also likely already knew of Smaug's demise, as his woodland realm had yet to be leveled. No, best as Orla could guess, Thranduil likely wished to know the status of Erebor's vast treasures and whether or not the dwarves still lived.

Orla very much wished an answer to that last question as well, which was why she had been so put out when Bard and the other men folk had all but frowned her into staying behind. As she waited, pacing and prowling amongst the recovering men and women, too distracted to pay any attention to the food she was supposed to be handing out, Orla devoted all her mental capacity to figuring out precisely what – in her heart of hearts – she wished to hear once the men returned.

She supposed she wanted to receive word that Thranduil would take pity on the poor souls around her, send them food and blankets, not scouts.

She wanted to hear that, surely, the fair ones might aid the victims in rebuilding.

She wanted to hear that Thorin's corpse was only just now ceasing its smoking, that nothing but ash and charred bone were left of the bastard who had done this.

The last thought stopped Orla cold in her tracks. That wasn't right, or at least, it shouldn't be. Yet she wished it all the same.

She had left Thorin and his company in the mountain once the dragon awoke. If anyone outside their close-knit circle knew the events of that night, some might argue that she had actually been driven way, but Orla acknowledged that perception as false, as much as it grated her. She had walked away; she had finally done that which should have taken place long ago. She should have never followed the dwarves into the Misty Mountains with those confounded, useless maps. She certainly shouldn't have left Rivendell, for if she had not done that, she never would have come to care – truly care – for Bilbo or Kili. Today, they would have been vague memories she recalled as she walked along the icy coast of Forochel.

After all, if she were in Forochel, she never would have seen Smaug's destruction, indeed, she wouldn't have heard of it until long after it was over. In Forochel, she still would not have laid eyes on a child who was never really hers, nor would she have cast him off in favor of those who would only turn on her. She might have met someone else, someone new – a fisherman, or a farmer, or a ranger. Every other thought in her mind wouldn't be of dark hair and eyes and a crooked grin. Kili would only have ever been a debt repaid to a meddling wizard, nothing more, nothing less.

A new question, one she never meant to think up, slithered out from the depths of her mind, rearing its head, ugly and unwanted. If she could go back, choose a new path, _a better one_ , would she?

For all her thinking, Orla found she had no answer.

For in her heart, after all that had transpired, she didn't know if it was for the better to have known the young dwarf and the hobbit. They had brought her peace and trouble alike. She had been fonder of them than of anything else in her life; yet, before they haphazardly came stumbling into her path, she had been fonder of herself, of the Orla who was more woman than wolf, the Orla who didn't _hate_ anything. Things had been so much simpler before; she had been so much simpler.

Orla wished for closure, but neither Thranduil's elves nor Bard could give that to her. She wished now that she had said goodbye. Not even to the hobbit, may the Mountain take him, but to the dwarf who had proved truer in the end. How happy she had been, curled at Kili's side, her head on his chest, longer legs entwined with stockier ones. In ten years, she had not felt so…Orla did not know the word and her mind fumbled to even describe the feeling. But she had wronged Kili greatly the night she waked away. And now, to think he might be dead? Orla shuddered and this time the cause was not the biting wind.

For if Kili was dead, then it was Thorin who had caused it, _Thorin_ who had undone all the effort Orla had put in to keep the princeling safe. The rest of her days spent without the young dwarf, Orla could bear, so long as she knew that _somewhere_ he was alive and well - she had never dreamed of having it otherwise. To do so would have been an impossible hope and Orla had never much cared for broken desires and dreams. She would never have allowed herself to be tied down by him, but then, Kili had never tried to do as much. Orla was well aware that she would have left Erebor behind once their adventure came to a close. He would have his duty and she would have the world ahead of her once more. But she would have said goodbye; she would have left Kili knowing that she was grateful for him and that he had meant something wonderful to her.

Yet, that chance had been denied to her. And it all came back to that forsaken King Under the Mountain. All the suffering around her, all the regrets and trials, all the awful, damnable _changes_. Finally, Orla knew what she wished most of all – to see that Thorin Oakenshield burned for all that he had done.

She was startled from the realization by the unwelcomed warmth of a hand at her elbow. Turning, eyes sharp and glinting as daggers, Orla came to face the unfortunate intruder. It was Bain who looked back at her, his eyes troubled but his smile boyish and greeting.

"My lady, one of the elves wishes to speak with you."

Orla's upper lip curled in distaste. _Which elf?_ She supposed she already knew the answer. The prancing one, with the shiny blond hair and a penchant for game sacks and nosiness.

"They've moved to the tent nearest the bridge – the big one."

There were no _big_ tents but Orla knew of which the boy spoke. It was the "official-for-Men-folk-only" tent, where Bard and some of the elders had been weighing Lake Town's options of late. The woman heaved a great sigh, her breath frosting out and over Bain's head. She nodded a moment later, desiring after all to know what was going on, and walked with Bain to the tent's exterior. The majority of the elves waited outside, their pretty heads quirked as they listened intently to the conversation taking place just behind the mis-matched walls of leather and cloth. Few of them acknowledged Orla, save for two she recognized as being the elves who had escorted her to Mirkwood's edge after her captivity at Thranduil's hands.

Bain did not accompany Orla inside, bidding her good luck with an unnervingly familiar wink as she swept the entry flap aside and stepped in to greet those before her. The first to notice her presence, Legolas smiled sadly at her. Undoubtedly, he had been informed by Bard that she had witnessed the destruction of the town. Orla did not return the look and instead found a vacant spot near the entrance of the tent where she could stand back and try to look as defiant as she could manage. Most in the little area had their backs to her and did not bother to turn around and greet her. Bard hardly acknowledged her either, so absorbed was he in a conversation with a second elf, a high ranking scout who looked as though he was of exceptionally good breeding, judging by his bright eyes and smooth, auburn hair.

"Lady Orla," the elf-prince called in greeting, "you've joined us at last."

Lady Orla was content merely to scowl grumpily until the elf, undeterred, went on. "The Lake Men tell me that you left with the dwarven company upon their departure from the town."

Orla's scowl faltered momentarily. The only reason she had escaped Mirkwood had been because she had convinced the elves that she was only a guide through the forest, nothing more. She had made no mention of her acquaintance with Thorin Oakenshield. Still, they could do nothing to her now, she reassured herself, and so she responded to the elf's question with a sharp, short nod.

"They wish to know under what conditions you parted ways with the bast – _dwarves_ ," Bard caught himself only just and cleared his throat before he continued. "So, if you've something to say, say it now, madam."

Orla, however, couldn't think of a thing in the world that needed saying.

One of the other men turned to look at her, his head shaking in disapproval so strong that the sagging skin on his face wiggled and waved. "My lady –"

"Call for the Grey Wizard, if you are wise," Orla snapped, her voice louder than she could recall it ever being. "I've no answers to satisfy you, save for that Thorin searches for the Arkenstone…if he yet lives at all."

"Mithrandir?" Legolas asked aloud. He turned to look at the elf who accompanied him. They spoke briefly, their exchange a barrage of elvish that Orla could not decipher.

The previously bright eyes of the second elf narrowed on Orla the moment Legolas fell silent and he asked, "What does a Beorning woman know of the Grey Wizard?"

Orla scoffed and looked away. _Very little._

"Beorning?" Bard exclaimed, looking to Orla as if he was only just meeting her. "Then your chief –"

"Father," Legolas corrected, "The Lady Orla is Beorn's daughter."

"All the better," Bard replied. For a tall man, even he had to tilt his head up to meet Legolas' eyes as he asked, "Might Beorn consider aiding us, then? If we are to go through with what your king has suggested, beast-folk would prove mighty allies. Particularly if his daughter is…involved."

"It is unlikely," answered the auburn haired scout.

'Unlikely' was a vast understatement, Orla knew. Beorn's aid would be impossible to acquire. She very nearly chuckled aloud at the ignorant optimism displayed by both the men and elves regarding her father's supposed propensity for helping those who were not his own. Someone really ought to warn them against trying; it would not do to have Beorn swipe off the head of the poor messenger who was sent to negotiate the desired aid. Stepping forward, Orla shook her head.

She heard the frown in Bard's voice more than she actually saw the expression. Bard was almost as good at frowning with his words as she was at doing so with her eyes. It was an admirable quality she had silently commended him on more than once.

"No? Why not? He is not fond of dwarves, or so I've heard."

Orla saw no reason to answer the question, as it was a very foolish one, and she remained silent. Her mind went instead to what Bard had mentioned in passing a few moments earlier. Apparently, Thranduil, in his infinite wisdom and boundless conniving, had a plan of sorts. She desperately wished to know what it was, but the details had likely been explained in her absence. Either she would have ask outright or set back and wait. She decided against asking, as enough had already been said.

Unbeknownst to her, Bard had been studying her, his eye critical as Orla withdrew. He was a man adept at reading others, although, more often than not, his patience for her ran short before he could puzzle out her thoughts.

He seemed to try harder this time around, for it was not long before he groaned and said, "Ach! The woman is right."

At the admission, his hand came down hard on the table in front of him so that it quaked and the others took a startled step back. Orla was left to puzzle briefly over just what exactly she was right about.

Bard continued, "We do not even know if Oakenshield yet lives. Allies are a waste of time if the enemy is already defeated."

This bit of sense appeared to sit well with the two elves, for they nodded in tandem.

"Then we must see for ourselves." Legolas suggested. "I will go, as will Nínimdor," the scout lieutenant gave an acknowledging nod, "Lady Orla's presence may benefit us as well."

There was a bark of laughter from the corner, the sound having bubbled up before Orla could stop herself.

The sound went unacknowledged as at that very moment, a third elf stepped into the tent.

" _Caunen_ ," began the scout urgently, " _Aew o ara Thranduil. Hossëdeid tulielto_."

Legolas stilled upon hearing the scout's announcement, his eyes widening so that his dark brows nearly touched his hairline. He looked to the red haired elf at his side, Nínimdor, who was looking no less surprised but markedly more pleased than the prince.

"What is it? What's he saying?" queried one of the men.

Legolas said nothing for a long while, so long in fact that the others in the room started to stir in discomfort. Finally, he explained, "The chance for diplomacy has passed. It would seem King Thranduil wishes to discover the Dwarf Lord's fate for himself - his army marches this way as we speak."

Bard drew back and, to Orla's great surprise, he looked to her. She shook her head, her lack of enthusiasm at the news plain for the bowman to see.

Tearing his hard-eyed gaze from the woman, Bard growled, "But you said it would be weeks! You said he wished confirmation before he acted! He will start a war! An elven army cannot march on Erebor! Even if Oakenshield is dead, his kin to the east will be on us all before they see that kingdom in your hands."

The bowman was wiser than any gave him credit for. Orla, however, had never really doubted that, as she had been rather impressed with Bard's actions to date. He was, undoubtedly, correct in his assumption. Orla knew little of dwarven politics and even less of who was kith and kin to whom but she had witnessed the race's pride and quick-temperedness first hand. No self-respecting dwarf would allow Thranduil to so much as set foot in Erebor. Indeed, it did not seem so farfetched that Thorin, even if he was dead, might rise up from the grave just to drag Thranduil out of the mountain by the roots of his long, luxurious mane. If the original plan had been for Thranduil to bide his time, to find out if Erebor was empty, the plan had clearly changed suddenly and unexpectedly. _Leave it to wood elves_ , Orla seethed, scowling at the two across from her purely out of principle. She had to wonder if the scouts had merely been a formality.

All thoughts of political scheming aside, the shape-shifter's stomach knotted around itself. No good would come of this. There was no need for an army! As angry at Thorin and Company as she was, be they alive or dead, she had no desire to see a thousand more lives lost. Thorin was not worth it. His wretched kingdom was not worth it.

Legolas, too, appeared to be at a loss. He likely knew enough of his father to understand what this news would mean. However, he was not quite so great a bootlicker as to agree with the action simply because his king and sire had deemed it necessary out of sheer contempt and greed. There would be losses – many of them – on both sides and the suffering people of Lake Town would only be caught in the middle.

"Get word to him," pleaded Bard, "ask him to wait. Let us go to Erebor as we planned, let us see if the dwarves yet live – plead for reparations if they do! These people cannot be pawns in a war between elves and dwarves! They will not survive it!"

There was passion and sense in his words and Orla found herself agreeing. There was a chance she may provoke rather than alleviate tension, she understood that well enough to tread carefully. But in all the room, she alone knew the dwarves best. And if they were… _gone_ – her breath caught at the idea – then she alone knew the entrance to the kingdom. Sighing, for she was desperately unhappy with the turn of events, she came forward and rounded the table, her small, weakened frame slipping between the two archers.

"I will go," she said quietly, her earlier frustration quelling, "Let me go."

"Alone?" Bard asked. "What will you tell him? ' _Good King Thranduil sends his regards – via an army_ '?" He scoffed. "Your head would be cleaved from your shoulders before you spoke the elf-lord's name."

"Bastard might be dead," someone muttered, "might be worth the risk."

"Aye, might find an empty kingdom," agreed another. "Take what's owed us before this delicate lot picks it over." The man waved a hand at the two elves.

"Have you all taken leave of your senses?" Bard cried. "Look outside! Look at your families! Take from the dwarves without asking and they will come take it back! We must do this the right way," he leaned forward, bracing on the table, his eyes downcast, "to do otherwise will end in slaughter."

"You…are correct, Master Bard," Legolas spoke quietly.

Beside him, Nínimdor jerked suddenly, the shock of his prince's words seeming to cause him to develop a twitch. Legolas paid the scout no heed. "The army will take only three days to gather here."

"Then there is little time left in which to prevent this." Bard replied. He placed a hand atop Orla's shoulder, his fingers strong and unflinching. "I will ride with you. Bain, as well."

It was a good plan. A complete long shot, but solid with its logic. A wolf, a dragon-slayer, and a child. Surely, their diplomacy would last the ages. Truly though, Orla felt that Thorin would have to have some respect for Bard, no matter how begrudging, once he found out the man had slain Smaug. And Bain would provide a child's face, innocent and unwitting, a victim to hopefully reach the sternest of hearts. Then again, Thorin was as crazy as a rabid dog and he could very well view the three of them as liars trying to cheat him out of a few chests of gold. Orla did not care for that last thought, so she pushed it away somewhere where it wouldn't trouble her for a little while.

"I will accompany you, too, then," Legolas informed them.

Aghast, the roots of Nínimdor's auburn hair almost turned prematurely grey at the idea. "My prince!"

Legolas silenced him with an admirably sharp look. "You may join us, as well, Nínimdor. Your counsel will prove invaluable."

"As will his bow, I imagine," Bard muttered. Orla stifled a snort.

"Then it is settled," the prince announced. "We will ride this evening. Thalon," he called to the messenger who had been waiting unnoticed at the mouth of the tent all this time, "Have the others see that the horses are rested and ready."

The bearer of bad news, Thalon, disappeared with a nod and short bow.

"I hope you are ready." Legolas said upon turning back to the table, though whether he spoke more to Bard or the wolf-woman, neither knew.

Bard's eyes did not lift from the table and Orla was the only one to notice that his hand tightened its grip on her shoulder. Sighing, his voice heavy, he replied, "I hope we all are."


	29. Change and Good Riddance

It was Oin, good, kind, eccentric Oin, who provided the most opportune distraction for Bilbo Baggins to burgle exactly that which he was supposed to be burglarizing – namely Arkenstone – away from Thorin, rather than for him. Oin had come shuffling in, shaking his head and muttering something about portents and omens, at the precise moment Bilbo returned from his seemingly fruitless search, a large, shimmering jewel tucked not too inconspicuously beneath his shirt. For days, Bilbo had searched until, by happenstance, which was typically the means through which these things happened to Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, he stubbed his toe on something hard enough to make him curse. Down he'd looked and lo and behold was the most spectacular gem he had ever lain eyes on – a noteworthy accomplishment to be sure, for he had seen many fantastic treasures over the last two weeks.

But Bilbo was not feeling all that charitable toward Thorin upon finding the Dwarf King's treasure, so, in a fit born of either rashness or perhaps boldness, he had shoved the jewel under his shirt and smuggled it back to camp. His plan had been to stow it away beneath his pillow, which was already hard as a rock so an actual rock beneath it would make little difference. The problem had arisen when he'd returned and found the entirety of Thorin and Company sitting around camp. It figured, he thought, that they would all retire early from their previously diligent work the very night he needed a moment alone. Everything good and holy forbid that Thorin, lunatic that he was proving to be, might glimpse or so much as _think_ that he had glimpsed Bilbo with the Arkenstone. The thought alone of facing what would likely be Thorin's homicidal wrath was enough to scare Bilbo to little pieces, so he thanked his lucky stars that Oin came in when he had.

When the old dwarf spoke up, all eyes turned to him, save for Bilbo, who leapt at the chance to turn his back, shake the jewel from his shirt, and slip it out of sight as quickly as he could.

"Somethin' odd's happening," said Oin, "I was just out on the ramparts and a flock of birds flew up from the east."

Thorin, who, by now, considered himself much too good to sit on the floor and was perched instead atop a fabulously comfortable looking chair, seemed uninterested. Scoffing, he replied, "A flock of birds? Is that so odd?"

"Time's passed for 'em to be flying off. Too cold. Ought to be settled down for the winter, but up they went all the same. Starlings and finches."

"How can you know they were starlings and finches?" Fili asked. He sat beside Thorin and his brother across the room. Kili, who had been dozing in a corner, perked up long enough to glare at his brother. He seemed altogether unconcerned with talk of birds.

Oin seemed to think the question was irrelevant, because he continued, "Farther off than that, circling about in a great mass were more birds. Carrion birds, Thorin. There's a storm brewing."

Fili sat up straighter when his uncle shifted beside him. When Thorin said nothing, the fair haired dwarf supplied, "It's nearly winter. There's always a storm –"

"Not that type o' storm, boy. Carrion birds, they mark death. Or bad tidings."

Oin rested a shaky hand against the nearest wall. His eyes were troubled, his brow heavy. Most in the room trusted omens enough to at the very least be set on edge, for they had heard how Thorin's father's father trusted in ravens and thrushes to bring him news of bad gatherings and interesting goings-on. Bilbo hadn't heard much of what Oin had been saying, as he was still trying to calm his nerves from the smuggling operation he had just completed.

He tried his best not to look at Thorin, as he was certain that Thorin would read the lies there in the burglar's eyes, try as Bilbo might to hide them. Instead, Bilbo sat down on his bed roll and pulled his shaking knees to his chest. When he found himself wishing that someone warm and maternal was there to run her hand through his hair and reassure him, Bilbo knew that he must try to settle down before any more absurd thoughts crept up to muddle his mind. He really had to keep an eye on the others after all, at least until he knew what they would do.

Thorin stood from his chair, took two long steps forward, and stopped. "Show me these birds."

"Aye," Oin said, "they're still circling."

A minute later, Thorin, Balin, Fili, and Kili were being led from the room by Oin. Naturally, half the remaining dwarves followed, until only Bilbo, Nori, and Bombur were left. The hobbit was immensely thankful for the reprieve and he laid down on his little pallet, stretching out his legs with a yawn before flipping over onto his side. The Arkenstone was even less comfortable than he expected but he dared not risk moving it again. Not yet, anyway. He would bide his time until he felt the moment was right, or until he could take no more of Thorin.

Bilbo's confidence in Thorin diminished with each passing hour. He wished sorely for Gandalf; the wizard would be the perfect solution. _He_ could take the Arkenstone and do something wise with it, withhold it until Thorin mellowed. Or perhaps, Gandalf would give it to the Lake Men. Bilbo felt they were very deserving of it, after all. If there were even any Lake Men left, that was a rather glaring stipulation, Bilbo supposed.

How power-mad would Thorin be if he held the jewel in his hands – the one thing that would truly symbolize his peoples' return and all that entailed? A few months ago, Thorin as he had been would have proved an exceptional choice, in the halfling's opinion. He had been stalwart, unflinching, and inspired the fierce loyalty of those who followed him. But the sickness that plagued the line of Durin had ruined him to such an extent, Bilbo had to wonder if the loss of the Arkenstone was the only way in which the old Thorin might return to his senses. Maybe, if the stone was believed to be lost, he would learn to move past it and set the kingdom to rights regardless.

Bilbo had to hope as much. For he knew that Thorin walked a dangerous road, the sort which led to bad endings. Then again, so did Bilbo. He was aware that he was taking an awful chance but he had no real option – the Arkenstone could not be Thorin's and they were not so close to rock bottom that there was not still some distance left to fall.

.

* * *

.

Riding hard, it took the motley envoy from Lake Town all the evening and an entire night to reach the great gates of Erebor. Not much was said between the group along the way. Orla rode with a visibly uncomfortable Nínimdor, her hands clamped tight around the elf's waist. She had never cared for horses, nor they for her, and although Bard had offered his own saddle to her, the large bay he rode had thrown such an awful fit at Orla's approach that she had fled to the more docile mare of Nínimdor's. Remarkably, Bain proved to be an excellent rider for the son of a bargeman and kept up with little trouble.

Halfway through the ride, Legolas had slowed his horse and turned to look behind and with eyes sharper than any of the human's could hope to be, he had taken a long moment to study the skyline.

Prying Orla's fingers from his tunic and taking a much needed breath of air, Nínimdor had asked, "My prince, what do you see?"

"Birds," replied Legolas. He raised a hand to draw his fellow elf's attention to something in the black distance, "There - to the southeast."

Orla had dared to peep over her shoulder, still to reluctant to completely turn around in the saddle. She saw nothing of note, save for a faint swirling far away of something darker than the rest of the sky. Bard and his son remained silent, having neither the eyes of a Beorning nor an elf to help them in the pitch.

Shortly after, Legolas had righted himself once more, saying nothing other than a troubled, "We must hurry."

The sun was only just beginning to peek around the mountain, grey tendrils of light spreading out like sleep-stiffened fingers to greet them when they arrived.

"Do they have guards, father?" asked Bain, climbing down from his horse and stretching.

"A watchman or two, if there are any dwarves in there at all."

The rest of the group climbed down, save for Orla, who stilled when the mare began to paw restlessly at the ground. Nínimdor had to all but drag her from the saddle, mumbling something in elvish Orla was grateful not to understand. She had barely gotten her legs under her before Bard came to join her at her side.

"They were your companions," he said, "Tell us how to proceed."

For the entire ride, Orla had pondered exactly that question, though it had mostly in an effort to distract herself from the infernal rocking of the horse beneath her. She had come up with several plans and had dismissed most of them promptly upon thinking of them. Simply put, there was no _good_ way to approach Erebor. Either they all dragged themselves over crag and crack to what was basically a back door inside, provided it even remained open, or Orla did so by herself. In the latter situation, she was faced with the possibility of discovering the dwarves' barbecued corpses alone or coming face to face with a living, breathing Thorin Oakenshield, at which point one or both of them would try to throttle the other and absolutely no good would come of the situation. And if they held their current position, they risked wasting precious time if the dwarves were, Eru forbid, all dead. Yet, if they stayed and waited for a watchman to spot them, they risked being turned to pin cushions if Thorin decided to issue a rash, uninformed order.

All her thinking had eventually led her to a conclusion, thankfully, and although it set her belly to churning with nerves, she announced her plan.

"Stay here," the wolf-woman told her companions. "I will go forward alone to the gate and call for them. If they answer, let me greet them. If they do not…"

Upon hearing her words and understanding the meaning behind them, Bard placed a strong hand atop her shoulder, as he was becoming wont to do. There was hardly any pressure in his grip, just a steady, hovering presence to reassure the woman that she would not be alone, no matter what news awaited her.

"We understand."

The slightest incline of her head and an appreciative shift in her gaze to meet his were the only thanks Bard received before Orla turned from him. She spared no words to the elves or the boy; they would wait and watch, as per Bard's example, and she was unwilling to ask more from them than that.

Leaving her companions behind, she ventured forward until she was well away from the horses. With a loosening roll of her shoulders, Orla closed her eyes and after a moment of tingling and a shift in the wind, the wolf prowled forth. From behind the creature came a gasp and a flurry of words too soft to make out. Those words did not matter. Even the wolf's mind comprehended the moment that was quickly approaching, the moment that would reveal to her the company's fate. It was easier like this, as a wolf rather than a woman; her heart was steadier, her thoughts less clear. Anxiety was reduced to the prickling of fur instead of the constant roiling of a human's stomach.

When the wolf was only a few yards from massive doors and stretch of walkway that had been carved just above, she stopped. Raising her head, she gave a bellowing howl, one long and baleful. To even a stranger's ears it would have sounded like a call, a desperate, ragged note trilling within it to set it apart from that of a mere animal. When the wolf could cry no more, the creature took a breath, her sides heaving, and soon another wrenching wail broke the air. A third and fourth howl ripped the morning, until even the sun seemed to rise up in answer, its golden rays shining onto fair fur.

The very moment when it seemed that there would be no reply, the stirring of someone along the ramparts above brought the wolf's call to a sudden and startling silence. The figure ran, disappearing between stone battlements so that only a blur of dark hair was visible as he moved. Suddenly, upon reaching the end of the rampart, the nearest point to where the wolf now stood, the dwarf in question popped into view.

It was Bofur, the ridiculous hat atop his head confirming the observation before he ever opened his mouth.

"It is you!" cried the miner with a happy wave. "You're back!"

The wolf had no time to respond, as Bofur took off back down the walkway, disappearing from view once again. With a huff, she turned back to the group waiting some distance away. In the blink of an eye, Orla stood where the wolf had been, and, though she didn't know it, she looked to Bard and his son to be very small in comparison to the positively massive creature that had just been in her place. Bain's mouth hung agape and did not close until his father and the two elves began to move toward the waiting woman.

The waters had yet to be tested enough for Orla's liking, however, and she cast her hand out in a gesture for them to wait before they came closer. Bofur had always been kind to her, having taken less time to get over her two-naturedness than most of the others, but just because he was happy to see her did not mean that Thorin would be as well. There was still a probability of having a hail of arrows rain down or a vat of boiling tar dumped atop her head and she would not believe otherwise until Thorin himself stood before her.

The other dwarves appeared much sooner than she thought they would and she heard the noisy clang of their armor and equipment long before she actually managed to catch sight of them. Like little vermin, they appeared in between the spaces of the ramparts, some faces smiling, others scowling so fiercely Orla rather wished she had stayed on four legs. Two members of note were missing – Bilbo and Kili. Momentary panic took hold of Orla's throat, squeezing so that she could hardly draw breath. Where were they? Had they been the only casualties of Smaug before his escape? The skin-changer shook off the thought. No, it was more likely that Thorin had ordered them to stay back. It would be interesting to see if they obeyed.

Thorin was the last to appear. Orla spied him striding purposely behind those who had ran ahead. On his head had been placed a crown of gold and sapphires, shining against the black of his hair in the morning light so that he looked every bit as regal as the Elvenking had in Mirkwood. To Orla, though, he looked like a tyrant, so outfitted was he in fine clothes and jewelry enough to pay for Lake Town's rebuilding. It enraged her. She wished she might turn into a bird so that she could fly up to meet him and rend those fine things from him alongside flesh and limbs.

Still, the woman bit her tongue until the moment Thorin leaned over the rampart to peer down at her, she met his eyes and saw in them such disinterest that it nearly caused her to cry out in fury. How dare he look upon her as if she were some mere gnat to be waved away? Not after all she had done for his kin, not after the trials he had wrought upon her, _not_ after she had come all this way to try and warn his worthless hide of Thranduil's approach.

"Come down so that we may speak, Thorin," growled the woman through clenched teeth. She had not spoken loudly, but the change in the dwarf's eyes told her that he had heard her all the same.

At her words, Thorin sneered, the expression ugly and twisted. He said nothing, made not a single motion to address her. Instead, looking on her for only a second longer, his eyes shining like those of a victor at those they have bested, he turned his back to her and began to walk away.

Suddenly beside herself with anger so fierce it blinded her to those approaching from behind, Orla cried out the dwarf king's name in its entirety.

"You bastard, you spineless coward," Orla raged, her voice pitched and quaking, "turn around! Turn back around! I will speak, Thorin, and by the Mountain, _you will listen_!"

It was a challenge; Orla had meant it to be, and Thorin, who had until now seemed content to mosey his way back to the stone halls from wence he'd come, spun about on his heel suddenly and marched to the nearest dwarf, Dori, only to snatch the poor fellow and toss him aside so that Thorin was flush against the rampart's edge once more.

"Have you come to tell me of Esgaroth's destruction, wolf? Have you come to tell me that the town on the lake has been burned to ashes? That its people were lost to dragon fire?" roared the king, his fist coming down hard atop the stone edge. "Have you come to ask me to weep over the Men who have met the same fate as befell my people all those years ago? I will not!"

"Then what will you do, Thorin?" It was a new voice, one Thorin had not heard before. Bard had come to join Orla at her left. Legolas appeared at her right and between them her anger was left to simmer while cooler heads prevailed.

"And who might you be?" Thorin asked as he looked over Bard from head to toe. "A fisherman? A tax collector? You keep strange company - a Beorning whore and an elf brat."

"A bargeman and dragon slayer," replied Bard calmly, though his knuckles began to whiten as his fist curled in on itself.

Even over the distance, the arch of one dark brow said more than Thorin's actual words. "Are you truly a bargeman and dragon slayer or are you but a liar?"

"I am Bard, and the murderer of your people fell at my hands. We wish only to speak with you."

Thorin stepped back and looked about. Raising his arms as if to shrug, he asked, "Are we not speaking now?"

"As civilized men –"

"Your companions tell me enough of why you have come! You come to tell me of things you _want_ , things you would see taken from these dwarves." Thorin jerked a finger at the man standing below. "You, Bard of the Lake, have come to tell me that you wish reparations to be paid. And you, elf spawn, have come to tell me that your father is eager to share in the spoils of Erebor. But let me say this now – neither of you shall have what you wish. You come to my gate, a wolf at my doorstep, armed as though you mean to take what you ask for by force!"

Even Bard was not ready for the barrage of words that Thorin directed at them. He tried to reason, "We are but five –"

But Thorin did not let him speak. "You are naught but false goodwill! Did you think a familiar face might sway me? Or that of a child who follows blindly at the heels of his betters?"

It was Legolas who intervened, no doubt having sensed that Bard, like Orla, was nearing the threshold of his temper.

" _Gonnhirrim_ , let us try for reconciliation. Armies are marching and only one of them is of my people. This need not come to blows."

Beside the prince, his lieutenant leaned in to whisper something so hurried, none but Legolas caught it. Looking again to meet Thorin's eye, Thranduil's son continued, "Have you no thought for the misery of Bard's people? They aided you when your company flew from our halls and thusly you have brought them only ruin, whether through your desire or not."

Thorin, unfortunately, had brooded far too long on thoughts of gold to be swayed by matters of conscience. He did, however, appear to calm considerably. His gaze cooled and his head lifted so that he almost resembled the more diplomatic Thorin of months past.

"No _Man_ has claim to the riches of Erebor," he spoke and this time his voice was so level that the people whom he addressed were set on edge purely by the sudden change of it.

"For the supplies and assistance we received, we will pay fairly and in due time. But _nothing_ will we give under threat of force."

"The price of supplies and assistance," hissed Bard, though his voice was quiet so that only those close to him heard. "He offers to pay for a few nights rent and some loaves of bread!?"

Thorin was not yet done. He went on, "It is time that you all departed from my gate. As I said, I will not parley with armed men, nor will I with any of the Elvenking's kin. Thranduil has no place in this argument. And you - hear me now, beast, for if I lay eyes on _you_ again, your life will be forfeit."

There was nothing to be gained by arguing further, and although there wasn't much more that could honestly be lost by pressing the issue either, Bard and Legolas seemed to decide that they best leave Thorin to his madness. He was beyond reason, a fact which was now clearly established for all of them to see.

Likewise, the dwarves, too, seemed to give up. Thorin turned to go with Dwalin and Fili following closely behind him. A few of them appeared woeful at the result of the proceedings they had just witnessed and Bofur and Ori both graced Orla with sad waves goodbye. Balin, too, looked to be at a loss. His eyes, old and wizened as they were, lingered on the skin-changer longer than the others before he finally shook his head sadly and went to follow his king and leader.

When all the dwarves had disappeared, Bard heaved a weary sigh. "We should go," he said solemnly.

Young Bain appeared eager to depart and took his father's words as reason enough to turn tail and begin the short walk back to the horses. Legolas and Nínimdor followed suit, their expressions unreadable. Orla, though, did not move from the spot to where she had been rooted since Thorin had spoken.

Bard looked down at her, leaning slightly in front of her so as to get a better look. He started, "My lady, we –"

But she shook her head. She did not want to hear anymore words that day. Words were terrible and typically said all the wrong things. Why they had wasted time saying so many, she suddenly found she couldn't understand. All the words that needed to be said had gone unspoken because the person they needed to be said to had been nowhere to be found. And now, the chance was gone - well and truly gone.

It would not do to linger and with a forlorn sigh, Orla brushed past the bowman and headed back the way she had come.

.

* * *

.

Two more weeks passed and in that time the lake and all the surrounding area saw the arrival of Thranduil's army and heard the first whispers of the reclamation of Dale. Cold weather had gripped the area tight and had yet to let go so that the beaches of the lake proved an unfitting place for a people to recover. Bard, alongside Legolas, saw to it that the survivors were herded to a more defensible, and indeed, altogether cozier, position in the ruins of the old city. There in the valley, buildings were made of stone and fires could be lit in the cold of night to ward away frostbite and other sicknesses. Buildings were sturdier and what was left from many of the Lake Town homes had been moved into the new location. Fortunately as well, the elves had brought with them plenty of food to tide both themselves and Bard's people over.

Bard's name had been on many lips as the days passed, something that was both fitting and useful, as he had earned the recognition, and as a byproduct, Thranduil was given someone with whom he could commune. The decision had been made to try and starve out the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, rather than resort to immediate bloodshed. Legolas was owed no small thanks on this point, as it had been he who had eventually swayed his father from marching the army straight to the doors of Erebor and bashing them in to claim Thorin's head, as Thranduil dearly wished to do.

As it was, Thranduil amused himself by plotting all sorts of variations of Thorin's demise and occasionally strategizing for any possible battles that might take place. Stirrings and whispers had been passed around that a goblin horde had been spotted to the south but the movements seemed to have stilled with the arrival of the elven troops. What the goblins had planned and whether they would be foolish enough to go through with an attack was anybody's guess.

Orla proved to be a rare sight, as she had chosen to spend more time outside the encampment of Men than in it. Bard tried his best to convince her to stay within the safe confines of Dale but it was of little use. The woman would not be persuaded to do anything other than what she wanted to do. Occasionally, on his trips to visit Thranduil atop the hill the elves had claimed for themselves, Bard would spot a fair-furred wolf in the distance. Once or twice, the wolf had kept him company in his walks between camps but when he tried to speak to her, the creature would only give a rumbling, unhappy growl in response and trot off. She was watching for someone or something, Bard wagered to guess, and just what or who it was, he had no idea.

Nothing particularly exciting happened until late one evening after most people had gone to bed. Bard had been locked in conversation with Thranduil over whether or not to continue the bloodless siege of Erebor when, without so much as a call to announce her entrance, Orla had come sweeping into the Elvenking's tent. Not a single syllable was uttered from her lips, which in and of itself was not so very strange. What was strange was that she had smiled at Bard, her lips pulling to one side, making her look all too pleased about something which he knew nothing about. Thranduil, too, was briefly taken aback by the woman's gall, if the quirk of his brow was any indication.

Neither had time to address her before there came a sudden shuffle from outside as elves called to one another. Another voice, one that did not sound at all like an elf, was sputtering and doing a poor job at explaining certain circumstances. Not two minutes later did an elven guard ask for admittance into the tent. Thranduil granted it and in marched three fully armored guards. Between them, what Bard first thought was a child was tied and bound. It wasn't a child, the bowman realized upon closer inspection, but one of the Shirefolk. It was the very same halfling who had left with the company of dwarves, the one Orla had motherhenned so over.

Bilbo Baggins stood none too proudly for all in the room to see. He had been manhandled quite enough for his lifetime thanks to the patrol that had scooped him up and dragged him to Thranduil's presence. Orla's smile only grew when she saw Bard look to her for explanation. She was clearly unbothered by the hobbit's mussed appearance. Her smile eventually faded and she slipped back to the corner of the tent, as was her custom, to watch events unfold.

Thranduil looked to one of his guards to explain the situation before him.

"We found him wandering the outskirts of our encampment. He is a spy, Lord Thranduil –"

"I am not a spy!" Bilbo squeaked. "Orla, would you please tell them I'm not a spy!"

Orla only cocked her head. Thranduil turned to look at her and her shoulders rose and fell without a word of reassurance.

Bilbo pleaded, "Orla!"

She frowned and shot Bard a dubious look. _He could be a spy._

"What would I be spying on, exactly?" the hobbit tried to reason. "We can see you all from the ramparts! If you're trying to hide, you're doing a poor job at it!"

"' _We'_?" asked Thranduil. "You and the dwarves?"

"No, me and the all the goblins – of course, me and dwarves!" Bilbo snapped. Had his hands not been tied, Bard suspected the little one likely would have crossed his arms in a huff.

Growing tired of the go-round, the bowman posed the obvious query. "Then if you're not spying, what are you doing, Master Baggins?"

"Helping!" the hobbit crowed. "Untie me so that I can show you what I've brought," as an afterthought, he added a polite "please."

With a shrug, Bard met Thranduil's look with one of his own. "He's a hobbit, what can he do?"

"Very well, untie him."

Thranduil waved one of his hands and a guard drew a knife from his belt and cut through the ropes so quickly that Bilbo had to pause and count all his fingers. Satisfied that he was missing no digits, the hobbit shrugged off from his shoulders a pack that no one had noticed. Soon it was open and the hobbit pulled out what looked to be a heavy bundle of cloth.

"What is that?" asked Bard.

Orla came forward to join the other onlookers at the table, her brow furrowed. If she had any idea of what might be under all the wrappings, she did not show it. Pulling away the layers of cloth, Bilbo produced the most beautiful gem Bard had ever lain eyes on. Even in the dim, candlelit room, it shimmered and glowed an ethereal blue.

"The Arkenstone," Thranduil almost purred the name, his eyes having gone wide in wonderment as he gazed upon the jewel.

"You stole it out from under Thorin's very nose." Bard could scarcely believe it. Beside him, Orla looked no more convinced than he. Her head tilted this way and that, no doubt trying to puzzle out how exactly the hobbit had gotten away with what had to be the theft of the century. Her visage had not softened at the reveal, if anything, it had grown more concerned, as though if she frowned hard enough, the jewel might vanish from the hobbit's hands.

Quietly, in what was hardly more than a whisper, she said, "He'll kill you, Bilbo."

The burglar smiled half-heartedly at her words and Orla bristled so under the expression that Bard nudged her gently to calm her.

The hobbit explained, "He was becoming intolerable. I couldn't…I had to do something, Orla. I had hoped Gandalf would be here."

Looking away, Orla swallowed hard. To Bard, she wore the expression of someone who agreed and didn't want to admit it.

"There are things you don't know," Bilbo explained, "I have information you haven't got –"

Bard shook his head. "Are you threatening us or helping? Why would you betray your own friends?"

"I'm trying to avoid trouble for everyone! You don't know Thorin quite as well as I do and I promise you, the man is willing to sit on that golden throne of his and starve to death while you all wait here!"

Bard couldn't rightly say that Thorin didn't deserve to starve for all he'd done, but the bargeman conceded Bilbo's point.

"I – I have an offer for you." With these words, Bilbo offered up the stone in his hands. "I may be a burglar, but I'm an honest one. Or, so I hope, anyway. This…Arkenstone, it means more to Thorin than any of the gold in that mountain. It will help you in bargaining with him. He's sent a raven for aid from the dwarves in the Iron Hills and I think they mean to come. Perhaps this can help."

With that, he walked bravely over to Bard and deposited the heart of the mountain in the man's hands. Bard was at a loss for what to do with something so precious held between such calloused, dirty hands. All he could manage, as he was too surprised to say much of anything, was a rough, "We…thank you, Master Baggins."

Bilbo nodded and reached to give the curls at the top of his head a worried tug. "Anyway, I really ought to be getting back now before they notice I've gone."

Despite the hobbit's clear show of goodwill, his words were exactly the wrong sort to say in front of Orla, for as soon as she heard them, a cruel bark of laughter erupted from her. Shaking her head and throwing her hands into the air, she slipped from between Bard and the Elvenking. She was gone past Bilbo before the hobbit could even register she was leaving and he only turned in time to see the back of her sweep out of the tent and disappear.

"Bilbo Baggins, you are more worthy than Thorin will ever give you credit for being," Thranduil spoke, his eyes only now managing to tear away from the jewel in Bard's hands. "But you would be wise to remain with us. The dwarves will not forgive this betrayal should they discover it."

"That is why you must not mention me. I don't care how you explain to Thorin why you've got the Arkenstone, or even if you do explain why you've got it. I've done all I can, now I really must be getting back!"

"As you say," conceded Thranduil. To his guards, he ordered, "Escort our friend as near to the mountain as you dare. See that he is safe."

Bilbo's chest rose and fell as a relieved breath left him and he offered them a small smile. "Thank you, Bard, uh, King Thranduil. Best of luck, I hope!"

With a cheerful wave that didn't fool any among them, the hobbit dipped his head once more and departed from the tent.

.

* * *

.

_That went surprisingly well_ , Bilbo thought as left the Elf-Lord's tent behind him. Admittedly, he had panicked when Thranduil's guards had accosted him near the edge of the camp. They had seemed utterly baffled as to how Bilbo had made it so near the encampment without detection, which Bilbo took to mean they must have plenty more guards strewn about the countryside who he just hadn't noticed - because they certainly hadn't noticed him, but neither had Bombur or Bofur, as he'd slipped past them on the outermost walkway of Erebor. It wasn't Bilbo's fine skills as a burglar that had allowed him to creep away undetected, but rather it was all thanks to the fancy, little ring in his pocket. He tapped his waistcoat pocket now to assure himself that the gold band was still there. What a magnificent, little thing! Bilbo was ever glad to have found it.

Now, as he hurried to keep pace alongside the elven guards, he looked all around for a familiar face that was nowhere to be seen. Orla had not looked as well as he remembered her. She was frailer and gaunter than he could recall her being, as though all the many miles she had traveled and the meals she had missed had very suddenly caught up to her. She had stayed close to the bargeman's side, Bilbo had noted, and looks had passed frequently between them, like a silent conversation that no one else was supposed to notice. Bilbo was well aware of Orla's peculiar ways but after what he had seen, he couldn't quite make up his mind as to whether she was trying in her own fashion to protect Bard or if, perhaps, it was the bowman who was looking after her.

Whatever it was, an alliance of sorts had been formed. Bilbo wasn't particularly comforted by the idea, as he had been certain Orla would be a sure bet in the dwarves' corner. He had heard several of them speak of Orla's appearance outside Erebor's walls and he'd heard the wolf's howl for himself but hadn't had much interest in watching the row that would no doubt take place between Orla and Thorin. Bilbo was still torn between them, much to his annoyance, as he wasn't at all sure who the greater evil was so to speak. A few of the dwarves had been relieved to lay eyes on the woman again but those voices had quickly been drowned out when Dwalin had reminded them that she came in the company of Thranduil's own son and a man wrongfully demanding gold to which he had no claim.

Bilbo grimaced when he remembered how Kili had come slinking in shortly thereafter, having been wandering somewhere or another, too deep in the halls to have heard the wolf. The expression on the young dwarf's face when he'd caught Orla's name being tossed about had been awful but when he'd realized that he had missed her appearance outside, Bilbo hadn't been entirely sure the dwarf wouldn't burst into tears. But, put on an unreadable mask he had, and before long and without a single word or question, Kili had turned on his heel and left the room. It was an odd dynamic between the two of them, and Bilbo wasn't sorry to not have to watch them flit about any longer. He had greater things to worry about, things like armies and possibly starving to death.

The hobbit was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't see the figure walk out in front of him until he'd all but bumped into the fellow. The elves beside him drew to a halt, bowing their heads respectfully. Bilbo was still trying to straighten his waistcoat, muttering some apology or another, when a large and bony hand was placed atop his shoulder.

So, up Bilbo looked – right into the face of someone he had been sorely missing for a while now.

"Gandalf!" gasped the hobbit as he jerked back in shock.

"Bilbo," the Grey Wizard smiled the happiest smile Bilbo had seen on anyone in some time, "you've done well, or so I hear. Look at you! Always more to be discovered about hobbits than anyone expects."

A hundred questions ran to and fro in Bilbo's mind, so quick that he couldn't form a single one and get it out of his mouth. He was left to just stand back and gape up at the wizard while making odd, unintelligible sounds that made the old maia's eyes crinkle delightedly in the corners.

Eventually, all Bilbo could intelligently say was that he absolutely _had_ to be getting back to the dwarves.

"Oh, no doubt," Gandalf replied, "Your adventure is not done quite yet, I think, though things should be drawing to an end soon enough."

"Is it true?" Bilbo asked suddenly. "What they're saying about goblins?"

"Oh yes, very much so. Many a goblin now lies to the south, along with a great manner of other things. But don't fret, my dear Bilbo, you might come out of this alright."

"Alright?" Bilbo sputtered. " _Alright_? But Gandalf -"

"Now, Mr. Baggins, it will be sunrise soon –"

"I've so many –"

" _And_ you really should be getting back. You said so yourself. Now, off you go!" Gandalf gave Bilbo's shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. "I will see you again, I promise."

"You promise?"

The Grey Wizard nodded. "Hopefully."

" _Hopefully_!" Bilbo's alarm was quieted by the faint glow of orange he suddenly took note of as it appeared in the sky behind the wizard. It would be morning soon, as Gandalf had said, and he had tarried quite long enough. Sighing woefully, Bilbo bid his friend goodbye with a fervent nod – he really couldn't say anything else – and hurried off at such a pace the elves were left to jog after him. The chuckle he heard from Grey Wizard as he departed stayed with him long after he had reached the stone walls of Erebor and gave him some comfort as he started up the rope he had climbed down hours earlier, only to climb back up and into the lion's den once more.

.

* * *

.

Orla watched the hobbit as he left through the camp's main gates. She was sat atop Ravenhill, looking northward toward the Lonely Mountain. It was an old outpost, refashioned partly into a war camp. Elves and a few human soldiers milled about a short distance away. The hill was a quiet spot for an outpost and she had spent more time on there over the last few weeks than she had in the valley of Dale below or even in the camp.

Refugees and soldiers – they made her stomach churn. War was brewing; she could practically smell the fear in the air. A few smiths, both elven and human, usually filled the otherwise peaceful quiet with the clangs of hammers on metal. Metal swords that weren't meant for the dwarves, Bard had assured her, but for the goblins, should they come up from the south. He wanted to protect his people, to see that they stayed safe if a battle should break out. But the survivors of Lake Town and the dwarves would be caught in the carnage of war and the dwarves were but thirteen. That was hardly a force, even as fierce as they were.

Orla had never seen a battle before, not a large one, anyway. She didn't think she wanted to. She knew good and well that the fool hobbit hadn't seen one either. _Why, then, is he going back?_ Orla had no answer. She groaned and let her forehead drop to her knees. She didn't like messes, certainly not ones that couldn't be tidied quickly and neatly or left behind altogether. Why Bilbo had left again, she couldn't understand. He had sneaked out from Thorin's watch and brought them the very thing he had been so determined to find for the dwarf-lord. As far as Orla was concerned, Bilbo's job was done. Over. Complete. He should be headed back to the Shire, not back into the belly of the mountain. But he did not want her protection anymore and she no longer wished to give it. _Let him go_ , she thought, _let him see the dwarf he calls 'friend'_.

Orla shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was a different cloak, not the same pretty, blue one Kili had picked for her the day before they had left Lake Town. That cloak had been lost by Bard, cast off at some point amidst the destruction. There had been no fancy cloaks to buy, so Orla had scrounged up a used one from a young man who wouldn't be needing it anymore. It was dull and brown, with blood stains down one side from where the previous owner had bled badly from wounds neither Bard nor Orla could save him from.

While her fingers played at the rough hem of the cloak, her gaze trailed Gandalf as the old fellow strode along. It did her heart good to see him, even from a distance. Maybe he, in all his wisdom, could make sense of what was happening. She supposed it was hopeless to wish that he could put the world back together again on his own but perhaps he could convince Thranduil and Thorin to play nice with each other and perhaps he could convince the monster in that mountain to cough up what was due to those who had lost so much. Perhaps he could snap his magical fingers and send them all back a few months in time, so that Orla could flee before all this trouble started.

But that was entirely too much "perhaps" for Orla to put any stock in. This would all go south before it was over. She was less blind to that fact these days. All she had to do – the _only_ thing she had to do – was to make up her mind as to whether she would stay or go. She had no place in battle. She had no place in Dale. She had no wish to watch hundreds or even thousands die for one dwarf's folly. She could leave now, at this very moment. Just disappear into the night; it would be that simple.

She thought of Gandalf and Bilbo. The wizard would see the little backstabber through, for good or ill. Orla felt no obligation to watch over him. That time had passed. She thought of Bard and his children. Could she call Bard a friend? Yes, she supposed she could. He was perhaps her only friend of late. She thought well of his children, too; they were very much like him in every way – good and just, stubborn, but absolutely rotten cooks. They made her think of Grimbeorn. She could go to him, claim him as her own, and they could leave Beorn's chiefdom. She would have company in her travels. Or, they could settle down somewhere – Bywater, or damn Forochel, if she fancied freezing to death all year round, or even Dale when it rebuilt. But either way, that would mean being a mother and Orla didn't think she'd make a very good one.

What reason was there to stay? _I have never stayed, not anywhere. I do not think I like it_. She thought of the song Thorin had sang the night of their last civil encounter. She had always liked that song, had thought it was meant for her more than anyone else who'd ever heard it but now, sitting atop Ravenhill, she detested it so much it made her skin prickle. The idea of change was an awful one and persevering through it seemed an impossible task. The idea of staying made her nervous and Orla didn't care for uncertainty.

All she had to do was stand up and take the first step. One step would be all she needed to make up her mind, to drive her back to the way she had been before. She wouldn't even have to say goodbye – not to Bard, not to his children, not to Gandalf. _Just go_ , she thought. Goodbyes had been heavy on her mind lately, like a constant hum in the back of her head, or a waggling finger that never stopped reminding her of what she hadn't done. Maybe it could stay that way, maybe the regret would fade into the background. After all, goodbyes had gotten her into this mess in their own way. She had been so distraught the morning she gone out to find Thorin and Company gone from Rivendell. So, she had tracked them down, hurried up that mountain, just to give them some maps that practically screamed 'so long, be well.'

No, Orla decided she was done with goodbyes. Save for one. There was one goodbye that needed to be said if she was to get any sleep ever again. She wasn't sure how she would go about it, but by the Mountain she might as well try. One last effort. One last hurrah to this awful, regret-filled woman who was so burdensome. Orla wanted no more of that woman. She would cast her off and then she would be gone, in more ways than one. Out with the new and in with the old.

Climbing to her feet, Orla, former companion of Thorin and Company, took one last look at the camp below and then, with a shake of her head, she turned away and left it and all the people within behind.


	30. Point of No Return

A second unexpected visitor arrived at the elves' camp the evening after Gandalf and, even if Bard had not heard the stories of this particular newcomer since childhood, he supposed he still could have could have guessed the fellow's identity on sight. Elves and Men alike parted to let the newest visitor pass, and pass he did, much like a hulking dreadnaught through a small bay.

Beorn the Bear-Man was every bit as immense as the stories suggested, a solid wall of muscle with predatory eyes and plaited hair. Bard himself stood a few inches over six feet and even then the Beorning chieftain dwarfed him, with the effect only growing the nearer he came. It seemed impossible to the bowman that this man could be Orla's father - that the same blood actually flowed through their veins. When Beorn stopped just short of him, the ground beneath Bard's feet felt as if it quaked from the weight settling upon it.

"You there," called the Bear-Man, "You're the one they call Bard."

With a nod, the bowman replied that he was indeed who Beorn presumed him to be. When nothing else was immediately said beyond the narrowing of hard, steel-colored eyes, Bard went on, "You are far away from home, Master Beorn. What brings you?"

"An army o' goblins rumbling down from the Misty Mountains is what brings me. What've those fool dwarves been up to?"

Bard had to resist the urge to laugh, because the situation was not at all funny.

"So far they've only set loose a dragon, destroyed a town, and nearly started a war." Taking a deep breath, Bard decided that had about covered the description of the past month.

Beorn, however, did not appear amused. If anything, the skin-changer looked as though he might charge off toward the Lonely Mountain at that very moment and Bard couldn't help but note that Thorin's list of enemies seemed to be growing ever longer by the day. Between the cracking of a few knuckles and a restless tug at his wild, black beard, Beorn's anger calmed enough for him to ask a question which surprised Bard.

"And a girl? Is there a girl holed up in that mountain with them? Yellow haired and mule-headed? A small thing, wouldn't know her from a –"

"Your daughter," the bowman supplied, "Orla. No, she is no longer with the dwarves. She has been with us since the night Smaug came from the mountain."

Bushy, greying brows rose at Bard's statement and if he didn't know better, he would wager to guess that the Bear-Man was far more satisfied with this news than he had been with the dwarves' current doings. That satisfaction did not last long, however, as Beorn soon shook his head again.

"Damned, flighty, horse-lord blooded…" the giant of a man caught himself. He took a half step forward, one that would have been practically a leap for any other man, and all too soon Bard found himself chest-to-chest with the man as he barked another rough question.

"Where's she at?"

The answer Beorn desired, Bard could not give. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Orla all day. She usually only came around when she wished to, as he had learned rather quickly, and it did little good to worry over someone who was able to change into an enormous wolf at a moment's notice, not when there were so many other things that needed his concern.

"I do not know," Bard finally said, not liking the way the Beorning was eyeing him during his silence. "Orla comes and goes."

"Ach!" Beorn threw his massive arms into the air. "Lake Men! Bring me an elf. Thranduil and I need to have a word."

Bard doubted very much that he would be able to convince Thranduil to leave the comforts of his tent, but he did not dare tell Beorn as much. Something had the big man worried. Bard could read as much in the constant open and close of his fists and the flit of his eyes as he looked about the camp at every passer-by, both things that had started the moment he had told Beorn he had no knowledge of Orla's whereabouts. For a fellow such as Beorn to be nervous about something, Bard figured he himself would do well to prepare for ill news. With all that had been said, there was little else to do other than escort the chieftain to Thranduil's lodgings, which the bowman did without another word. Beorn followed him and when they reached the entrance of the tent, the big man had to dip his head to enter.

"Thranduil," Bard called, ducking in behind him, "Beorn of the –"

"There's goblins moving up from the south. Small groups, scouting parties." Beorn was not one for pleasantries, but then neither was Bard, except when required. Thranduil's golden head looked up from his examination of a map upon what could only be called a war-table. For all his usual detachment, the Elvenking looked surprised to see the guardian of his western border filling up most of what had previously been considered spacious accommodations. Legolas stood by his side and mirrored his father's reaction with one of his own.

"Beorn," Thranduil tipped his head, "It has been many years."

"And it'll be many more after this, if I've anything to say about it."

"Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Bear-Man snarled and thrust out a meaty finger toward Mirkwood's ruler. "Goblins, I said. And wargs. They passed the edges of my lands several fortnights ago. I went after them, blasted creatures, followed them north along the river and through the mountain pass. When I saw they were headed this way, I knew the cause."

"Thorin Oakenshield." Thranduil spat the name like a curse. "Your eldest child was in his company for some time, though she did not realize I knew it. Have you come to claim her back? I have little time for familial quarrels."

"To have ears as large as you do, you don't hear very well!" Beorn snapped, though it sounded more like a growl. "I've been following the goblins and they're closer than any o' your scouts have figured. Their force is growing, elf, massing from the Grey Mountains to join with their kin. Their scouts have neared your encampment several nights now, and why they haven't claimed any o' your guardsman, I don't know."

At this news, both Bard and Thranduil startled in disbelief. That could not be right. Elves did not miss the likes of goblins and orcs when they passed within killing distance, not even in the dead of night. Even Bard himself had been out a time or two and he had seen no sign of the creatures other than the occasional plume of black smoke far in the distance.

No sooner did he recover from the report than did Thranduil scoff and shake his head. "Impossible. They would not dare come so near."

"They are led by no mere goblin commander – it is a white orc who leads them, Thranduil, as cunning as any of his kind I've ever seen before."

"I have heard whispers of him," Legolas spoke quickly, "Murmurs amidst our scouts. I thought them rumors."

"A ghost story," Bard agreed. "We've all heard the tale of the Defiler. My father told me he died at Azanulbizar, nearly a hundred and fifty years ago."

Thranduil laughed, sharp and cold. " _That_ is a dwarven tale. Most of it has never been proven and never will be. It is a story of a hundred glorious lies, spread by Thorin and his lot."

Bard, however, was no longer in a mood to tolerate Thranduil's personal bias and he was quick to throw the Elf-Lord's words back in his face.

"Then you admit the Defiler might yet live and what Beorn says may be true?" Looking to the skin-changer, Bard then asked, "How large are the scouting parties?"

"Small, two or three at the most. They creep on their bellies like rats, scurrying from rock to rock."

"Manageable, then. We should double the patrols, push these creatures back before they expand their line."

"What of the other dwarves? Those Thorin has called to for aid?" It was Legolas who posed the question.

Bard thought for a moment. There had been no signs of Dain and his dwarves from the Iron Hills, but that was not to mean they should be so quickly dismissed. Better to consider them in the grand scheme of things than risk an upset later down the road. Knowing this, Bard replied, "Surely, goblins are a better enemy than each other, even for elves and dwarves. Thorin's kin would not risk an attack on both fronts."

"No," Thranduil agreed, "Even dwarves are not so stupid."

Beorn tossed back his head and laughed. It was a boisterous, rumbling sound and as soon as he heard it, Bard began to wonder if the Bear-Man could sneeze without it sounding like a roar. When the laughter died away, Beorn, not at all shyly, told them, "I have my doubts – about both the dwarves and you lot."

Legolas frowned, not caring a whit for Beorn's doubts. "The scouts must be taken care of first. Azog, if that is who leads the goblin army, must not be allowed to believe he has bested us so soon."

The Elvenking nodded. "That cannot be argued, I agree. I shall double the patrols–"

"And you'll put a contingent of guards in Dale. Goblins cannot be allowed to reach the valley. They'll slaughter –"

Bard was cut off before he could finish, though in the end it did not matter, as Thranduil was clearly feeling reasonable and agreed quickly to the request.

"Your people, yes. And if they slip into the valley, it will be we who are left to defend two fronts. You will have your guards, bargeman. And what of your people, Beorn, will they aid us?"

"My people are few enough," Beorn told him, "But I will stay. For now, at least."

From what he had seen and little things he had noticed, Bard had the sneaking suspicion that Orla would probably turn her nose up at the Bear-Man's declaration. Still, Bard felt obligated to ask his next question given that Orla, wherever she had disappeared to, was not around to glare him into silence.

"And your daughter?"

"What of my daughter, bargeman?"

What of her? Bard did not know. He was curious as to where she was, for as much as she had been prowling about lately, he had to wonder if she did not already suspect her father's approach. Had she fled? The only way to get answers out of that woman, however, was to demand them straight and half the time, if she did not feel so inclined, she would not respond even then. But, none of that mattered, as she was nowhere to be seen.

Beorn did not wait for a response, shifting instead on his feet. _There_ was the unease again that Bard had spied earlier. Beorn crossed his arms and looked to the ground in thought. A moment or two later, he asked, "You've not seen her in camp this day?"

"Nor in Dale, though I left early this morning to return here."

"The child was present last night, was she not? What is the worry?" Thranduil was growing bored if the roll of his eyes was any indication. Already, his gaze was turning again to stare longingly at that map of his.

With a derisive snort, Beorn said, "Ah, it matters not, let that worthless progeny o' mine do what she will."

Yet even as Beorn spoke, something in the tone of his voice did not reflect the things he said. Whatever their relationship, the man was regardless ill at ease at the thought of goblins sneaking about and his daughter effectively missing in action. He seemed as though he was still trying to convince of the likelihood of Orla returning when he said, "Girl'll come round again. Leave it be."

He turned to Bard. "I'll set up between here and the valley."

"Very well. It won't hurt to have one of the animal-folk nearby."

"It most certainly will not," said a voice from behind and all who were in the room turned to see Gandalf standing at the tent's entrance. How long had he been there? Bard would never get used to the ways of wizards, especially not this particular one, for they had only just met yesterday. As a rule, he generally did not care for mystics of any description, but he had come to the conclusion that Gandalf was an amiable enough sort – for a wizard who was especially mystical.

"Beorn, may I present –"

Legolas was silenced with a glare a moment before the Beorning snapped, "I know who he is."

"Indeed you do. Beorn and I have met before," clarified the Grey Wizard.

"I don't suppose you have 'one or two' friends with you this time?"

"No, I'm afraid I haven't," replied Gandalf, "I fear we could already have sorted this mess out if I had."

"Is something the matter, Gandalf?" Bard asked, curious as to the wizard's sudden appearance.

"Oh, a great many things, I suspect. But there's nothing to be done about them just yet. Beorn, you were saying something about heading out toward the valley?"

With a wary eye, the Bear-Man grunted an affirmation.

"Well, then, I do believe I shall accompany you! There's much we should discuss, you and I."

"Mountain save me from the meddling of wizards," Beorn sighed. "Very well."

With a curt nod farewell, the chieftain stomped out of the tent, Gandalf ambling out behind him with naught but a knowing smile to the others.

.

* * *

.

For an entire day, the wolf watched. She hid among the rocks beneath the battlements of Erebor, curled around herself as she waited patiently. Every second hour, the dwarves along the ramparts changed shifts, two at a time keeping a watchful eye on the hill to the south. Bombur and Bofur had been the first, leaving just as the wolf had settled down among the stones, hidden away and well out of sight. Nori and Dwalin had been there to watch the sunrise and the late morning had seen Ori and Gloin come and go without event. Balin and Bifur, Oin and Dori – they all came and went. Fili and Kili had come out mid-afternoon, and that would put them back in the very early hours of the morning. The wolf would wait; the patience spent would be well worth it.

Like that, the day passed into night, with grey, canine eyes watching all the while as the sun rose and fell. When the darkest hour came, long into the dead of night, the wolf heard the muffled voices of the brothers Durin.

It was time, then, for her one last goodbye.

Getting up from her belly with a stretch, the wolf slunk out from the rocky shadows. Fili passed above her, blind to the silent form creeping below and focused solely on the glowing campfires in the distance. He and Kili had not spoken once they had gone their separate ways, as Kili would not be walking the same section of wall as his brother. He was to the west, out of sight and likely out of his elder brother's mind for the time being.

Reaching the walkway was impossible for the wolf; the youngest Durin would have to come down. Knowing this, the wolf stalked to the west, following the line of the wall as it curved just slightly with the mountain. The creature heard the princeling before she spotted him, with the thudding scuff of boot-soles skimming atop stone giving his movements away. Her steps became heavier, shoulders and haunches rolling with every movement, the wolf joined the dwarf above in his pacing. The click-clack of claws on stone was not noticeable at first, nothing but ambient sound. But add to that a low whine and soon enough the dwarf's footsteps fell silent.

He had gone still, listening; had he been prey, the wolf, too, would have frozen in place. But Kili was not prey and his attention was very much desired. And so the wolf whined again, careful in the sound's volume but oddly desperate all the same. A long minute passed and then Kili rushed to peer down over the rampart's edge.

The wolf could not see his eyes, not in the darkness, not even as they widened so that naked white should have been visible all around. It was instead keen ears that pricked when the name "Orla" was whispered just once, prayer-like in its quality.

It was enough to give the wolf cause to sit and toss her snout into the air, beckoning Kili down. Yet, the prince paused, unsure, caught at a fork in the road without any direction as to where either decision might lead. Then, he was gone, pushing away from the wall and out of sight. He did not appear again for several long minutes, and when he did, he had a coiled rope slung over his shoulder. A few quick movements of deft fingers and the rope was tied off.

Like a water drop down a pane of glass, the prince slid down. He did not shake his hands out as his boots hit rock, although they were surely burning. Instead, Kili came forward, nearly at a charge, bound for the wolf. A soft stirring of wind caused his dark hair to lift and flutter briefly and then Orla was there before him, her shoulders and arms limp but the rest of her so frozen in place, she could not move to greet him.

Kili reached her quickly and when the heat from him – the shear _warmth_ that was him – embraced her, a sob wracked the woman. Orla buried her face in the crook of Kili's neck, daring to send her arms around his shoulders and press him to her.

"You're back," whispered the young dwarf in her ear and Orla thought all of sudden she might cry at the sound. "By the stone, Orla, I didn't think –"

He was silenced when the wolf-woman's lips claimed his. And hers they were, for this one final night. There was such pressure from her mouth bearing down on his that Kili hissed, sucking in a breath and breaking free all of a sudden.

"You left," he said softly, pressing his forehead to hers, "You left. Wasn't sure you'd be comin' back."

He took a deep breath and Orla knew it was for her. She suspected she smelled of stone and earth, but Kili appeared as pleased by the scent as he ever had been.

"Thought you were gone. Then they said they'd seen you and that I'd missed you. Orla – where've you been? Tell me it wasn't Esgaroth, not when the dragon –"

_As he struck,_ Orla looked away and prayed he couldn't read her eyes in the darkness. But he did; somehow, Kili always did. That deep breath he'd taken was suddenly expelled, ghosting over Orla's throat and making the flesh there tingle and rise.

"Doesn't matter. Now you're back. I'd hoped you'd come to your senses." He offered half of a grin. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

When Orla stiffened in his arms, she knew he did not have to look at her to understand. No meaningful glances were needed, no softly spoken words. She _had_ come to her senses and those senses had told her not to stay – not with him, not with any of the others she had left behind. For so long, Orla had feared a silent Kili of Durin, had been terrified since Mirkwood of the moment the young dwarf could think of nothing to say. No happy words, no comforting quips, not even the flash of dark, warm eyes or a carefree grin. That was Kili as she faced him now - the Kili who only gaped at her in his understanding. He stood, locked still, and watched as Orla said her only goodbye.

The large hands at her waist clamped down suddenly, broad fingers digging almost painfully into the flesh above her hips. Never before had Kili been rough with her, not in anything. But now, he held her as though he feared she would break from him then and there and vanish without a trace.

"Kili," Orla realized when she needed to find her words, they were no more than vapors in her mind, unformed and unable to be caught. Just his name, nothing else, was all she had.

But then, what was there to say?

She felt the slide of one rough hand up her body until it stilled at her cheek. It was no caress. Kili's fingers buried into the curls behind her ear and the tears Orla had so far pushed back threatened to spill again.

Goodbyes were horrible things.

"What'd I tell you?" Kili asked suddenly. "About this grand adventure of ours? It's almost over –"

_But not the way you expected_ , Orla shook her head sadly, _not the way you believed_.

It was true; there was no surprise in the acknowledgement.

"I won't ask you to stay," Kili declared, "Not if you want to go. But, tell me – why it's got to be now, like this?" He was so desperate for an answer Orla could not give, so pained by the need of if, Orla actually felt him wince.

In her fumble for a response, the best she could muster was an unspoken _because she had to_ \- because she understood that she had no place in the shadow of Erebor, and that no dwarf prince could change that.

"Tell me!" Kili demanded and Orla spared a worried look to the walkway above, hoping that Fili wouldn't hear and come round the corner. "For once just _say_ it."

In a flash, both of his hands were on her face. This time, it was he who kissed her. His lips moved over hers, trying to coax an answer out of her. A tongue, warm and searching, flicked at her bottom lip, begging admittance that Orla granted without protest. Let him find his own answer, his own goodbye. She would not, could not say it, no matter how he asked. Not even after all her internal bluster. All thoughts, all the determination to find a finite ending to whatever it was that lay between them shattered as Kili took anything and everything the woman in his arms could give.

She gasped, drinking in the cold air around them; she had to, she thought her chest might burst otherwise. The hammering of her heart, the swirl of her thoughts, it was all too much to give a name to it. It was all she would have to remember him by after tonight – just the recollection of the peace of mind he brought her. Never mind armies, or omens, or storms. She would leave all that behind tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Tonight, letting go was suddenly so difficult, she did not think she could do it. Tomorrow would be better.

Feverish lips broke from hers and strayed to her throat, nipping, nuzzling as if Kili had had the chance a hundred times before and knew by heart every inch of her. Orla let him take – she wanted and needed him to one last time. Her hands tightened in response to Kili's damned _searching_. He found something at the bend of her neck and, when he bit down, she nearly buckled under him.

"Orla," breathed Kili. The whispered words breezed over the tender mark, causing wet, red skin to prickle. "I'll miss you," he said finally.

They were such simple words but no longer did such utterances sound naïve. Orla would miss him as well, always. Despite her hopes, she knew she would not forget him. There was no point in regretting it now.

Suddenly, though, her thoughts pulled sharp into focus as she realized that Kili had moved away from her. Cold air hit her like a hammer struck a nail. But his hand found hers a moment later and Orla calmed once more, content to let him pull her wherever he wished.

"Away from the wall," he said and not for the first time, lead Orla into the shadows. Together, they retreated to a patch of dark earth between two large, sheltering rocks.

"Lay down with me," Kili asked, "for just a little while, won't you?"

Lay down she did, and happily. Coats were shucked off and spread over their bodies as Orla nestled into Kili's chest. One of her legs wrapped around his as his arm mimicked the movement further up her body, pinning her close.

Nothing else was said and for a little while, they had only their own thoughts and each other for company.

"I'll miss you," Kili whispered again eventually, his lips grazing the top of Orla's head. It occurred to Orla that he was saying something else, something stronger that she had not had the heart to let him say before. He said, " _I'll miss you_ ," but, all too clearly, she suddenly knew what he meant.

In response to the realization, her hand curled against his shirt. It did not take much coaxing before his weight was bearing down on her, solid and all encompassing. Orla kissed him gently, enjoying the feel of his body above hers, glad for it. Just once, he moved against her, his hips shifting to meet her own. _There_ was the shyness that made Orla's lips curl and she gripped him tighter.

A single time, she whispered his name, her lips at his ear, and he bucked again. Raising himself away from her, Kili shivered and moved to place his elbows on either side of her head. Flat of her back, Orla gazed up at him. The glimmer in his eyes had returned and so had that smile of his. Again, she allowed herself another kiss and the young archer granted it freely. Orla's hands searched for buckles and ties, pulling and pushing cloth away until his chest was bare and she felt his heart hammering beneath her fingertips.

Her own clothes followed shortly after. The night seemed less cold as her legs parted wide enough to graciously allow him entrance. All was perfect, each pull and thrust, each gasped breath. There was no hurry, not in goodbye, and when Orla's legs wrapped around his back to hitch him closer, deeper, Kili seemed determined to keep it that way. It was torment and paradise and in the back of her mind, Orla doubted she would ever feel the like again.

Kili murmured her name, his head falling to her shoulder and a hand to her hip, pressing her down, farther down into the earth to pin her there. His hips ground to hers and at the friction, Orla's arms flew around him, clinging desperately to him.

She broke with a sudden and fierce shudder, a sob wrenched from her. Strong arms held her and this time there was no parting as Kili groaned and snapped his hips forward one final time. There was warmth in completion and neither lover was quite willing to part with it. Kili's head bobbed here and there as he sprinkled kisses over her shoulders and neck. Finally, when both their bodies began to grow stiff, Kili pulled from her and this time Orla let him go.

She reached for her clothes and he for his and once they were dressed, they remained on their feet. Orla went to him, her hand slipping across his cheek. The stubble there was unchanged, still short and rough, and she wondered if in ten years down the road it would look any different. She suspected she would not ever have the answer.

Turning his head to kiss her palm, Kili sighed. "They'll be comin' soon, love. The watch is almost up."

Despite his words, there was no goodbye in his eyes. The observation crushed Orla; it pressed down on her chest and squeezed around her throat. Fighting back a weak sniffle, Orla let her hand fall away. The end of them was creeping nearer and she was suddenly terrified of it.

"Will you come back?"

Orla shook her head; there could be no lies to him and in her heart, she did not think she would return. To come back would mean she would have to acknowledge the changes time would bring. Time would take away how they were in that moment. She would not always be so young and Kili would be subjected to the duties of a prince of Durin and all such a title entailed. She wanted exactly this – how they were – forever, but forever was not so very long, it seemed.

In that moment, Orla was certain she did not want to hear goodbye, not from him. Best to leave it unspoken, like so many other things. Softly, Orla kissed Kili once more, and when she pulled away, she did so completely. Two steps back and the wolf-woman was out of his reach.

From the wall above came a call, Kili's name and a plea for him to hurry along. Turning back at the sound, the young dwarf looked to the ramparts above, his eyes scanning for his brother, his hands clenched in a silent plea for the elder sibling not to come around the corner.

And when Kili looked back around, one more "I'll miss you" on his lips, one last whisper of her name, he found that the Bear-Man's daughter had already gone.

Goodbyes really were horrible things. Yet, despite it all, and though Kili would never hear the words, in her own way, Orla truly would miss him, too.

.

* * *

.

If goodbyes were horrible things, Orla had to admit that goblins were infinitely worse. She had not expected to pick up the fiends' scent, not when she was still so near Erebor and Thranduil's encampment. Vaguely, she wondered how she had missed the stench up until now, but with tears stinging her eyes and her head swimming in thoughts of both relief and regret, she might have forgiven herself for not being as alert as she should have been.

But might have and should have been were of little use now.

Kili was an hour behind her; she had left him and had yet to look back. In the distance, the night sky glowed a dull red from campfires, so inviting before, now they only reminded her that she had not yet gone far enough. Even the wind smelled of smoke as it gusted past, blowing curls and carrying away the last remnants of Kili's scent from her. And there, ruining it all, was _goblin_. Rotten and fetid, Orla was struck so suddenly with the smell of them that she actually retched. Like a deer finding itself amidst a pack of wolves, Orla went still, listening, waiting. Her senses should not be telling her the things they were – that the goblins she smelled had been exactly where she stood not long ago and that they were not so very far off now. _But where could they be_?

She did not hear them. She certainly did not see them.

Goblins often thought themselves cleverer than they were but Orla had underestimated them twice in the past and it had brought her nothing but trouble. The current development was not at all what she needed this night. She needed to go, to walk until she could not take another step, until the Lonely Mountain was too far away for her to consider turning back. Now, she would have to run instead.

So, run Orla did. She fled so suddenly and with such speed that a cloud a dirt shot from beneath her boot heel. Over rocks and hill she scrambled, sliding down and springing onto her feet again. She ran away from the south; she had heard soldiers speak of the horde that supposedly lay hidden there. How far they were, she did know, but there were scouts about and it would not do for her to get caught tonight, not when her heart was still heavy and her body so restless. Orla wanted to be gone from this place completely. Dale, Erebor, all the land around it. She wanted nothing more to do with any of it.

Disbelief was all she felt when the first goblin fell on her. She had run nearly a mile, her heart pounding, the winding howling in her ears. With a shriek, the creature hit her, leaping up from the ground, its green, ugly hands outcast. With a hard thud, Orla was driven to the ground. She tumbled and when she righted herself, it was with bared teeth and a snarl.

In the midst of the adrenaline, she seethed, _how dare this creature choose this night_! It was neither right nor fair and all Orla saw because of it was red. There would be no mercy for this beast. The goblin had not expected her to recover as quickly as she did and his ensuing screech as she lashed out to grip him by and ear and rip it away told her that he had not expected her wrath either.

_So many things gone wrong._

Orla fell on the goblin without blade or bow. It was instead the pads of her fingers that she dug into wide, black eyes. Never had she heard _anything_ scream so wildly. But this was a goblin and goblins hardly counted as living things. When she had blinded him, she leapt back, her mind a snarl of red as blood pulsed behind her eyes.

Blindness was not enough. Not tonight.

The goblin was still rolling on his back, his hands sweeping at his face, when Orla lunged for the second time. It was the wolf who came down, jaws clenching around one green wrist and tearing. Soon, the goblin's throat was bared and within a few moments, there was silence.

The wolf rolled away from the body and got to her feet. Goblins were vermin – where there was one, there was always more. Like wasps from a nest, five more creatures erupted from behind rocks, screeching and screaming as they flew at her.

The wolf fell on them without discrimination. Teeth gnashing, tearing whatever flesh came near, she fought. Cries rose up, calling to others to stick her, bash her, maim her – word meant to terrify and startle.

But there was no fear in that moment, only anger, rabid and raw, and soon five more bodies joined the first. One victorious howl broke the night, carried for miles over the wind in all directions. No response was expected – and yet one came.

A bay so unnatural, so wicked, that the wolf finally felt the first pricklings of fear. What she had heard was not the sound of any mere wolf or fellow Beorning, but of a warg. These goblins had not been alone. More worrisome still was that it had been a warg lurking nearby. Growling, the wolf lowered her head, her ears twitching back and forth to catch the slightest sound. The swift padding of paws over grass and stone brought the wolf's warning snarl to a fever pitch.

After a moment, there was stillness. Nothing but the wind.

And the wolf ran. Four legs dashed over rugged terrain, flying further and further from the danger that lay behind. Too soon, the earth grew hillier as she rounded back toward the mountains. Still, over steepening inclines, tired, aching muscles pressed on. When there was but one last hill to descend, the wolf leapt and landed at a sprint, her heaving lungs grateful for the reprieve granted by the ravine. A blur of white to the left, coming from the long way around a nearby hill to head her off, caused the wolf to stumble. Down she crashed, small bits of rock biting into her fur as she slid. With a whine, the wolf struggled up.

Before her stood a legend she had only glimpsed once before. The White Warg of the Defiler.

Impossibly large, with fur of snowy white, the monster came closer. The nostrils of its massive snout flared as the beast inhaled and its black gums pulled back at the scent it found – fear.

But there was fury mingling there as well, anger so great no simple animal could have managed it. But the Beorning did. Pure and sudden hatred rose up off the wolf, seeping from her pores and fur, and the warg smelled it. Between the two creatures arose the understanding that the wolf could not flee. She _would_ be run down.

This was what prey felt like and the wolf refused to become such so easily. Not tonight, not after what had been left behind. The choice of running had been taken from her. The option to flee was swept from the playing field by a giant, white paw.

And so the wolf flew forward with every ounce of strength and anger she could muster. The white warg was too large a target to miss and the wolf fell at the beast's back, above its shoulders. She tore until white turned to red and then she was flung off. In the blow that followed, the wolf recalled only once before that she had been struck with such force. That had been a decade ago and the blow had left a mark that remained to this very day. A second mark would be left as the warg's jaws snapped and caught the wolf's haunches. The burn of torn muscle caused the smaller creature to wail, the sound splitting the air like a clap of thunder.

Like a snake, she turned to strike in retaliation, catching the retreating warg at the ear. It was the second ear of the night she dispensed of, her fangs biting away the white-haired flesh to its base. Azog's pet roared and fell back, leaving the wolf to scramble to her feet. One leg was sliced from the hip to its bend and when the warg charged again, the wolf was at its mercy.

Belly to belly, the two beasts collided, the weight of the greater driving the wolf to her back. Two bear-like paws came down on either side of the Beorning's head, leaving her to curl defensively against the ground. A long snout came down, wrinkled in a growl, and all at once a primal, animal terror took hold of the wolf's consciousness and _twisted_. Death neared, inch by inch, until finally dagger like fangs closed around her body.

Like a rag doll, the wolf was tossed into the air, only to land several yards ahead. There was an almost feline quality about the warg and the way it toyed with its beaten prey. But enough was enough and the warg leapt to close the final distance.

It sniffed once, twice, and suddenly drew back. Wargs were intelligent creatures, a fact often belied by their fearsome appearance. The wolf understood upon seeing the gleaming, moon-lit eyes of the warg narrow that her death would not be at this creature's hands.

For a second time, huge jaws closed around the wolf's middle, leaving her to whimper as she was lifted from the ground and carried away. Each jarring lope of the warg caused its fangs to dig deeper into flesh and fur. Hot saliva invaded her injuries like a poison and there was no relief. The more profusely the wolf's wounds wept, the tighter those cruel jaws became.

How far or long she was carried, the wolf knew not, but all too soon the rank smell of rotted flesh and filth filled her nose, dragging the skin-changer from the brink of the darkness threatening to take over. Voices, guttural and foreign, threatened to deafen her. How many orcs and goblins surrounded the two canines, the wolf could make no sense of; a pack or a horde, it did not matter.

Finally the warg stopped and without pretense the wolf was deposited on the ground, her body left to lie limply. The warg stepped over her, its white belly passing hazily above for a moment and then the wolf was left behind. Footsteps approached, heavy and bipedal, and the wolf dared raise her head. It was the warg's master who came for her – Azog. Scarred lips pulled back over broken, cat-like teeth as the Defiler smiled. With his remaining hand, he reached down.

He though the wolf weak, broken. It was not to be so just yet.

With a sudden snarl, the wolf struck, her teeth locking down upon the pale orc's wrist and hand until black blood flowed between her jaws to coat her tongue. With a foreign curse, Azog jerked back and lifted the wolf, for she would not turn loose. In her mouth, his hand twisted and finally she dropped.

A giant booted foot kicked out and the wolf's side gave as a rib snapped. With an involuntary shudder, it was Orla who rolled atop the ground, an arm slung around her middle. She dared not scream – to scream would be to see that awful smile again and she was determined to die before she gave the Defiler the pleasure. Down one leg, her pants and boot had been torn, a long gash stretching from her thigh to her knee. Blood soaked her – _everything_ smelled of blood.

Azog spoke and the woman shut her eyes tight against the black speech. She knew not a word of what was said but she understood the threat, felt the bravado as all around orcs cheered. She was nothing but sport. Her peoples' name was clear enough when the Defiler spat it.

No Beorning died on their knees. They were of the Mountain, a proud and stubborn people, and Orla more so than most. Azog's words fell away as the skin-changer stood. Her wounded leg was badly buckled but her good one held strong. Cold, defiant eyes met those of the Defiler – the same eyes that had watched and reveled in so many deaths. He roared at her and in the blink of an eye the back of his hand cracked against her cheek, sending her sprawling backwards.

And again, Orla stood. If there was one last goodbye to be said to this world, it would _not be said on her knees_. She was no coward. Not for Thorin, not for Bilbo, least of all for the Pale Orc.

Azog rumbled something else. Was it a question? Orla cared not. She glared at him and when his foot collided with the middle of her chest, she cursed him silently, her head cracking back as she fell.

_Not on her knees._

The Defiler repeated himself. It _was_ a question.

From behind, rough hands gripped Orla and snatched her up. Something wet and hot dipped into her ear – a tongue – and then an orc hissed to her, "Where is your master, little wolf?"

Orla wrenched away. She knew to whom Azog and his minion referred. But Thorin Oakenshield was not her master and they would never hear his name pass her lips. Like so many times in the past, she would utter not a word.

A third time, Azog asked the question and as a response, Orla spat, blood and spit splattering across the orc's pallid chest. The moment the Defiler wiped away that stain of defiance was the beginning of the end.

The Bear-Man's daughter would never be the same.

With a roar, Azog came at her and his hand, still bloody, closed around her throat. Close, too close, he pulled Orla's face to his and that awful question was asked once more.

And there was silence.

_He is not my master_ , Orla challenged, _never_.

With a flick of his wrist, the Pale Orc cast her down. He called out in cutting, rough syllables to one of the others. This time, before Orla could get to her feet, the Defiler kicked her flat of her back. His foot came down atop her chest, its weight solid and unmovable no matter how Orla thrashed.

Azog spoke to her and it seemed that he was capable of Westron, for Orla understood him as he said, "You will not speak? No tears, no voice at all?" The foot on her chest pressed down as the orc leaned forward to meet her eyes. "So be it."

From the side, a goblin shoved something glinting into Azog's hand. Too soon, Orla realized with horror what he held. It could not be. _No_.

A rusted black pair of shears protruded from between the Pale Orc's fingers.

Wildly, desperately, the wolf-woman began to struggle. She clawed until her nails were ripped from the beds; she thrashed until another rib cracked as the foot atop her pushed down to hold her.

And as a second orc knelt above her and his sick, stinking fingers gripped her jaw and pried it open, Orla _screamed_.

With his large foot crushing down on her chest, the Defiler leaned down to drag the tip of the shears along her open jaw, the tip digging into flesh. The last thing Orla saw before pain blinded her was his grinning, grotesque face and then the Defiler reached inside her mouth with his shears and cut out her tongue.


	31. To Suffer in Silence

Never in all his years had Bard heard such screams. The night was shattered by the desperate cries of orcs and goblins as they were ripped limb from limb, some devoured alive, others left to bleed in pieces on the ground. Amidst them all raged a giant bear and with him the wrath of the most powerful Beorning in all the world was brought down upon Azog and his minions. Not an hour before, Bard and all the elven army had heard the distant howl of a wolf, a howl that had not been as telling to him as it had Beorn, for the Bear-Man had gone thundering out from the gates seconds later, rage-mangled shouts for riders to follow as they would ringing out behind him.

Bard, too, had climbed atop a horse and with four elven riders had taken out into the night after the bear. Just beyond view of Ravenhill they had stumbled upon the badly torn corpses of several goblins. Bite marks littered the visible areas of shredded grey flesh, too small to be from the bear who ran ahead, his monstrous black form speeding across the distance. Over the pounding of hooves, the noise of vicious, animal fighting erupted from one of the small ravines that ran down from the mountain to cut the landscape nearby. Brutal sounds, _canine_ sounds, tore at the bowman's ears and he had spurred his horse faster.

By the time he and the scouts reached the orc encampment, one that was well hidden and all too near Dale for comfort, the elder skin-changer was already laying waste to the beasts. Azog and his warg were not present, having fled amid the carnage of his brethren. Throwing himself from the saddle and drawing his bow, Bard let fly every arrow in his quiver and the orcs that were not dropped by him were soon dispatched by the tearing of blood-stained jaws. The elves charged into battle behind him, their silver blades showing no mercy as the orcs' numbers were cut down, death by death.

It was a blur. It was chaos.

And at the heart of it all, lay the writhing, wretched form of a woman. Twisted to one side, Orla's arms were cast over her face. She shivered and quaked so violently that the men who fought around her could see every jerk and twitch. Strangely, there was no sound from her. Bard yelled for her, ordered her to get up and take one of the horses and flee. But there was not a whimper. Not a scream. Not a single cry for help.

Even the shrieks of the orcs fell silent eventually. The bone-chilling roars of the bear, too, quelled and fell away. Bard was nearest to the wolf-woman when the adrenaline of battle finally died and it was he who first turned to see the damage that had been done. The white of bone glimmered against exposed meat and flesh along one of the woman's thighs. The wound was such that it should have been Orla's main concern, yet, that very leg was propped out uncaringly as though she had not noticed it at all. Her hands remained over her face, her pale fingers sticky and wet with blood.

"Orla!" Bard called for her, running to her side.

How had this come to pass? All the day, she had been missing, all the day, he had spared her little more than a thought. How long had she been in the hands of these monsters? Bard did not think he could stand to know the answer.

There was no sound from her, only the silent wrack of her shoulders as her body shook with voiceless sobs. It was only when he reached to still her that Bard noticed the wetness of her shirt and coat, the grey of the cloth having gone nearly black in the dampness. His hands fell atop moist, sticky fabric and in surprise, he drew back to look. Blood, bright and shining in the moonlight, coated his palms. Glancing back, he saw that Orla's entire chest was coated. Behind him, he heard the elves step away, one of them cursing, having no doubt felt the coppery burn in his nostrils.

"Orla," whispered the bowman again as he reached out to touch one quivering hand. "My lady, you are safe –"

"Away from her, bargeman!"

Beorn's voice shook the night as he hurried toward his child's prone form. He looked positively ferocious, his dark hair even blacker amidst the orc blood that washed it.

"By the Mountain," he muttered as he fell at the woman's side, "What've they done t' ya, girl?"

"You, scout, give me your cloak!" Bard demanded, turning away from the wounded woman and gesturing to a dark haired elf behind him.

Without hesitation, the elf stripped himself of the fine garment around his neck and thrust it into the man's hands. Pulling a knife from his boot, Bard split the fabric down the center. Never in his many days to come would he admit to anyone the way his hands shook as they reached out to wrap one half of the cloak around Orla's quivering leg. His normally deft fingers trembled as they sought to tie off the cloth and his eyes, weary though they were, fought to stay open as he was forced to look at the damage that had been wrought – this woman did not deserve what had been done to her.

So many had died already, so many who had not asked for the fate the dwarves of Erebor had all but thrust upon them. Bard's chest clenched at the thought. Orla had saved the dwarves many times from what he'd heard, she had saved his own children, and had stayed at his side as she learned to mend the weak and wounded. Now, she was the one who lay wounded and bleeding to death atop the cold, broken ground in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain.

Beorn was bent over her, his large hands grasping at her wrists as he tried to coax them away from her face. For all his bluster earlier, he spoke to her now as a father does a daughter, as Bard would to Tilda or Sigrid, but the woman would not be swayed. Even as blood pulsed and flowed in weak streams from between her fingers, Orla would not move her hands away. Whatever had been done, there was no revealing it unless they pried away her fingers.

"There is no time for this! She will die!" Bard erupted suddenly. He cast one hand out to clasp the chieftain's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Beorn, we _must_ take her back to camp."

Beorn nodded and soon he had his arms beneath his daughter's knees and back to lift her from the ground. In response to the shift in her weight, Orla was forced to roll to her back and no sooner had she been moved than did she suddenly hack and sputter. In a mist of red, blood was expelled from her mouth and between her fingers as she choked, followed by the sick, wet sounds of a drowning woman. Weak though she was, Orla wrenched away from her father and onto her stomach as she continued to retch.

"Girl's choking," Beorn growled. "Damn it all, child, I've got t' move you. Brace yer'self, now."

But no matter how he turned her, Orla continued to gag and sputter until at last Bard pulled her to him and twisted her clawing fingers away from her mouth. With a cry, the bowman fell back as his eyes came to rest on the travesty before him. Orla could _not_ stop choking - she was physically incapable of doing so, for her mouth could not be opened wide enough to expel the blood in quantities great enough to keep her from having to swallow it back down again. Her lips, once rosy and full, had been sown shut with jagged black thread. Blindly, his fingers slipping in his hurry, Bard reached again for his knife, only to palm it uselessly for a moment before grasping it tight and raising it.

"Be still," he whispered, "you must _be still_."

Behind the woman, Beorn leaned around to look, his grizzled face a mask of panic when he saw the man raise a knife to Orla's face. Retaliation was halted abruptly as his dark eyes went wide with renewed outrage. The ensuing howl that broke from the Beorning nearly caused Bard's grip to slip. It was a gut-wrenching sound but even it was drown out by the loud pop of strings as the knife glided along the woman's mouth. Flinging herself away, free at last, Orla pitched to the side and heaved, one shaking hand flying to her throat as a mouth full of blood sprayed against the ground.

Like a baby, Beorn picked her up in his arms and held her upright against his chest. Her own arms were thrown limply over her father's shoulders as she hid her face in the mass of hair at his neck. Despite her obvious pain, not a sound came from her and it was left to Bard and the elves to wince and flinch in her stead.

"Take this," Bard instructed her firmly as he handed her the other half of the cloak, "Use it if you can."

Whatever had been done to her was far worse than he had feared. There were no cuts at her throat that he could see, nor did there look to be any wounds along her stomach. Either she coughed blood because she bled internally or something else had been done to her – Bard did not wish to think on that, not yet, not if there was a chance the suspicion slowly sneaking up the back of his neck was wrong. When he had been but a boy, Lake Town's crier had had his tongue ripped out under order of the Master for the unproven crime of slander. The man had died shortly after, Bard had been told, when he had drowned in his own blood.

"I will carry her," Beorn said, "Ride ahead. Find a healer – one of the elves, not some purveyor of leeches and herbs."

Nodding, Bard strode past the bigger man. Beorn was too large for the horses; his weight would only slow the animal down. It would be better to carry Orla the distance to the camp, though had the man not been possessed of the animal-folk's strength and speed, Bard would have argued. Instead, he barked out an order to the elven scouts to ride out and track the few surviving orcs back the way they'd come.

None were to be left alive.

.

* * *

.

It was eight long hours later that the gravest news either Bard or Gandalf had heard for several days came to pass. Beorn had come barreling past them in a fit, wordless save for various growls and snarls. He had come from the healer's tent, where he had been ever since he had carried Orla back from the hell she had been through. Neither the Grey Wizard nor the bowman had been foolish enough to ask how the father how the woman fared. Gandalf merely stood back, his grey head bowed low and his eyes so full of regret they seemed on the precipice of shedding tears. He would not look at Bard, and he did not speak to him when the younger man had asked why Gandalf seemed so desperately remorseful.

After the break of day, Tilda and her siblings had flown to their father's side. Much of the elvish camp and especially Dale had erupted in rumors after the Bear-Man had charged out the night before, for few among their numbers had ever seen such a legend. The children's questions filled Bard's ears until they rang and his ear drums threatened to burst. All he had been capable of in that moment was to pull his daughters close and whisper to their brother, "Protect them." Bain had understood and he had nodded, only to pull the girls away once their father had turned them loose. The girls had become fond of Orla over the past month, both of them fascinated with her, and the thought terrified Bard. He did not wish for them to admire the woman, admirable though she may be, for if they did, if they thought so well of the older woman's fancifulness, what might await them in the future? Bard had no desire to see his children hurt, to see them covered in blood, laying at his feet in too much pain to scream.

And so the bargeman and the wizard sat and waited mutely until finally a silver-haired elf had emerged from the healer's tent.

Bard was on his feet first. "Does she live?" he demanded, "Tell us!"

Beside him, Gandalf stood, more feebly than he should have, and those sad eyes of his turned sharp and impatient as he looked upon the healer.

"She does," replied the elf, "though I cannot say it is for the best."

"Speak plainly!"

"Her tongue – it was cut out at the root. Breathing will be laborious, never mind speaking or eating." The elf's jewel-like eyes narrowed to slits and he added, "More merciful saviors would have cut her throat and spared her the life which awaits her."

"It cannot be," Gandalf murmured.

"It is so and there is nothing to be done for it. Her leg will be the least of her worries. Her innards, if the stitching holds so they do not leak out from the wound in her side, will be fine so long as she is given leave to rest."

Bard could hardly believe the words. "Surely there must be –"

"There is nothing." With a brief incline of his head, the elf swept by the pair and disappeared back into the tent.

Sighing, Gandalf turned away to drop back down atop the bench which he had been previously seated. His old bones drooped and sagged beneath the grey of his robes and with a tired hand, he reached to drag his hat from his head, letting it fall to the dirt beside him.

"It is always the least deserving of punishment who face the worst of it," spoke the old maia after a while. "I met Orla when she was hardly more than a child, wandering the wilderness. She was picking flowers along the roadside. Daisies, as I recall."

Bard joined him on the bench, his weight settling down until he was not certain he would be able to get up again. Too exhausted to question, he was content to listen.

"She turned to look up at me and smiled so brightly, I thought the sun itself must surely be jealous. Before I knew it, she was trying to feed those daisies of hers to the horse I rode. Of course, I said 'how do you do' and she just continued to _smile_. Followed me all the way to Little Delving, never said a word all the while. I think she was glad for the company. Three years later, I came upon her again outside of Rivendell. How many days she had paced the edges of Lord Elrond's lands, I never asked and it took no small amount of coaxing to get her to accompany me – she had some inexplicable dislike of his kin, though I never found out why.

"Our paths crossed on occasion after that. I daresay, Orla was dearly loved by all who met her. Even the Dunedain, peculiar as they are, speak well of her. She…had that effect on people – men, hobbits, elves, all the good creatures of Middle Earth. Never asked for anything, always seeking to help even when it wasn't wanted," the wizard chuckled, "Persistent to the point of being a nuisance."

"Was she always alone?" Bard asked suddenly. He had not known she was homeless, for lack of a better word. How she had come to be in the company of dwarves was knowledge he had taken for granted, never finding a moment to ask. Now, he supposed, he would never hear the answer. Not from her. From her, he would not hear anything ever again.

"Yes," Gandalf sighed, "At the end of the day, yes, I suppose she was. She fled from Beorn's halls early in life, though I doubt if it was by choice. ' _What ifs'_ and ' _could of beens_ ' can drive a man mad - though now, I have to wonder if she would have been better off had she never stopped to pick those flowers."

"We all change."

"Not always for the better. Change wears many masks, Master Bard, and often it comes knocking whether we wish it to or not."

Bard scowled. "And if we do not wish to answer the door? As Orla did?"

"Then I fear change may kick it down regardless."

.

* * *

.

Change did come over the next month. In waves of soldiers and with the clatter of armor, change descended upon Dale and the Lonely Mountain no matter how hard people prayed otherwise. Thorin's request had been answered; Dain had come and with him he brought multitudes of the stoutest dwarven soldiers seen since the War of Dwarves and Orcs. The elder dwarf of the Iron Hills was not as unreasonable as the armies of Men and elves feared, however, and, after some discourse laced with various veiled threats, he had decided against immediately launching an offensive against them.

Only in the most recent days had Orla begun to limp about, her eyes downcast, never looking to anyone – not Gandalf or Bard, not even her father. Her leg had healed well thanks to the miracles of the elven arts but her spirit and mind lay in shambles, irreparable no matter the reassurances and apologies uttered to her or the number of times she had been clasped to numerous protective chests, whispered to in hushed, woe-befallen voices that she would be safe. Likewise, Bilbo had fled Thorin's side prior to Dain's arrival and he, too, was left to wait out each dreadful day as a crescendo crept nearer.

Thorin and his lot had yet to be starved out of their hole. Indeed, the King Under the Mountain had only appeared when Dain had gone to greet him at the gates of Erebor. Dain and several of his guard, along with Bard, Gandalf, the Elvenking, and the hobbit had gone out to meet with Thorin. With them they had taken a chest, a small and plain one, and inside it was held the Arkenstone Thorin so hungrily desired.

"Hail, Thorin!" Bard had said as the company of dwarves came out from the mountain.

Thorin, having stilled some twenty paces from the entourage, had called in turn, "Come you to bargain? And what of you, cousin?"

Dain, it had seemed, had been of the mood to sit back and watch and had only given a polite greeting in return. His army lay in wait, either way.

"Goblins come, Thorin, let us band together to defeat them. Agree now to pay reparations and the armies of men and elves will cease this siege so that we may work together."

Thorin had stated plainly then that there would be no reparations under any circumstances, as neither Bard nor Thranduil had removed themselves and their armies from his doorstep as of yet.

"Be sensible, Thorin. I know it is difficult for you but do try." Gandalf had pleaded. "Surely there is something that would change your mind."

Thorin, however, had seemed completely convinced that there was nothing that could be offered to him by man or elf that would sway him. That was, until Bard had brought forth that little chest of his and revealed what lay inside. Like a man possessed, Thorin had charged forth to look closer at the jewel that shimmered within, only for his vigor to wear off and leave him dumbstruck as he looked on.

After a long while, he had spoken and many a witness there had thought his head would explode from fury.

"That stone was my father's and his father's before him! It is _mine_."

"But it is not," Thranduil had argued, "I believe it is ours and shall remain so. Master Bard is of the opinion that it shall be more than adequate to cover the costs of his city's destruction."

"Tenfold," Bard had added smugly.

His broad shoulders trembling with wrath, Thorin inquired through clenched teeth how they had acquired the stone, looking pointedly at Bilbo all the while. Under the dwarf-lord's ire, the hobbit, having figured he had enough protection, had said quite bravely that he had delivered the stone to Thranduil.

"I will dash you upon the rocks of Erebor, you miserable traitor!" Thorin had snarled just before he had snatched Bilbo by the collar and hiked the little hobbit up from the ground.

"You are all in league!" he had cried as he shook the burglar. "I am betrayed!"

He had cast the hobbit aside, the fight suddenly gone from him. Dain had gone then to Thorin's side and for a long while the dwarves had communed with one another until finally, Dain had come back and agreed to the terms presented.

"Your portion of the treasure will be brought out tomorrow at dawn in trade for the stone. Guard your payment as you will from the army that approaches. My kin have decided that they wish to be done with all of you, especially you," Dain had looked sadly at Bilbo then. With a few final words to Bard on the matter, he had said, "It would seem your neighbors in Erebor will be rather cross with you for some time to come. I would tread carefully with my cousin, at least until a horde of orcs comes along to distract him. "

The matter should, for all intents and purposes, have been settled. And in an ideal world, it would have been, were it not for the matter of the approaching fiends. Regardless as to whether or not he wished to hear it, news reached Thorin's ears that day that there would not be war between the dwarven and elven armies, not yet, as Azog and his commanders had continued to bolster their numbers to the south with all manner of beasts. Countless wargs, bats from Dol Goldur, and heinous trolls from the mountains had come to join their orc cousins. War was simmering at the edge, waiting to spill over and pour down upon the thousands gathered around the mountain.

Like the rolling of a storm, the chants and calls from the goblins split the air night and day until rest became an impossibility. The women and children in Dale had confined themselves to the sturdiest of their structures, barricading themselves while their husbands, fathers, and sons were summoned to be outfitted with arms and armor many were too weak to hold. Gandalf, Beorn, Bard, and Dain were in almost constant council with Thranduil. Day in and day out, every word, every breath drawn, was in preparation for the battle that stretched before them, just over the horizon.

Finally, on the twenty-third day of November, the battle broke loose.


	32. They All Fall Down

The carnage that broke out on the twenty-third day of November in front of Erebor was to evermore be known as the Battle of the Five Armies and on that day the forces of men, elves, and dwarves alike came together to push back the threatening swell of the orcs and their beasts. No quarter would be given that day and by the battle's end, countless would lie dead at the gates of the great dwarven kingdom. Before all that death came to pass into history, however, the first of the war trumpets sounded at dawn's light and the first soldiers were rallied to the fight. Numerous war councils between the leaders had led to a plan of attack that would lure Azog, his commanders, and all their troops into a valley cradled on either side by the stretching arms of the Lonely Mountain. To the south waited the elves, to the east the dwarves and men, and high above on one of the ridges stood Bard and a number of other archers.

The camp at Ravenhill had all but been abandoned, with only a few guards remaining to hold it. Within its confines huddled Bilbo and the Grey Wizard who watched over him, as well as the frail husk of a woman who waited and watched, skulking about in the shadows where she could be found by neither hobbit nor healer. Orla had no wish to be found – no wish to be comforted with lies that claimed the battle would pass just as any storm. If she was told just once more that all would be fine, the wolf-woman would have screamed until her lungs burst had she been able.

She was not fine, nor would she ever be.

Orla, daughter of the Anduin, had learned of pain. It was a lesson that had taken well over the past month as that cursed elven healer, Evrim, had shifted her bones and stitched her flesh together with string that burned and pulled. She had learned of helplessness when the gentlest of broths caused her to choke and left her unable to do anything more than bang on the table for aid. She felt the ache of every breath as air caught and lodged without direction in her mouth.

The wolf-woman wanted to rage, to weep, to _speak_ of wrongs done to her. But there was no sound anymore and no one was brave enough to look into her eyes long enough for her to try and make them understand.

And in her heart she _despised_ them all for it.

She had tried to do so much good in her life, had helped and sweated and bled for others, and now many of those same people were too weak to do her the courtesy of meeting her eye and facing what had become of her. Was she so pitiful now? Had the dullness in her gaze, the limp of her gait, and the weakness in her hands come to disappoint them so? How desperate she had been to flee from the very feelings which confronted her now, to get away from the battle that lay just on the horizon and all it would bring; only to be cast back into it – to have her ways and her freeness taken from her forever. Resentment festered in her until it rendered her unable to look at others – friends, acquaintances, strangers alike – for fear of picturing the suffering they so deserved in her mind. She wished so desperately to see certain people so broken and utterly _ruined_ that the ache in her heart for it dulled the pain in her body.

So many would die today and there were very few among them for whom Orla feared. Come victory or destruction, Orla sensed that the worse would come to pass for those foolish enough to follow the orders given to them. Gandalf, Beorn, Bard, _Kili_ …fools down to the last.

The lot of them - war-mongers, save for one.

Dread, suffocating and ever-building, descended on the woman, cooling her vengeance to a white-hot simmer. Let all of Thorin and Company perish, Orla prayed, let limbs be hacked and bellies split…save for _one_ , that one last beacon marking that not everything in her life had faded to a hazy black and withered. But _his_ memory could not sustain her forever. It, too, would fade and if he died this day, it would vanish altogether. Orla feared the thought more than any of the monsters lying in wait just over the mountain. What would there be if she could not save the sole memory that lit her mind and freed her temporarily from the woe she had come to feel in the air around her?

Of all her friends and enemies, Kili was the only one she felt was worthy of fighting for. Her eyes strained shut as she thought.

_Let him remain untouched by this battle, unchanged by the butchery that lay in store, unharmed by the foolishness of his so-called betters_.

Without warning, she lashed out at a nearby table, one littered with little pots of salves and fragrant herbs. The table turned up with a crash, remedies and tonics spilling their contents like sickly water-colors over the rug. Voiceless, her mouth opened wide to cry out and her knees gave under her. Her fingers, dirty and numb with broken, jagged nails, dug into her hair. _If_ she pulled hard enough, scraped her scalp deep enough, _perhaps_ the thoughts would stop. If she could but voice the command, perhaps the approaching dread that stemmed from knowing that by the day's end she would know of Kili's survival might dissipate and vanish.

There was naught but silence and the fear was left to build until it weighed so heavy on her that her shoulders began to quake and quiver. When the trumpets sounded, minutes or hours later, and the crash of swords and axes boomed over the plains and valleys, Orla stood on legs too weak to truly take a stand. Back into the tent's shadows, she sank to her knees once more in frantic prayer to Eru, to the Mountain, to any force in the world greater than the fools who had wrought this destruction – she, who had once loved so dearly all that had been good and _alive_ in the world, prayed that the life of one might be spared, even if it meant the death of thousands more.

She did not hear the whisper of cloth as the tent flap was pushed aside or the ensuing murmur of confusion as the new visitor took in the sight of the upturned furniture. Nor did Orla pay any heed to the call of her name or the padding of bare feet as they approached.

Small hands pulled at her shoulder with the words, "Orla, the battle – it's started."

Once perhaps, Orla would have been dismayed to hear such ominous words uttered from the hobbit's lips. He had tried, Bilbo had, to put a stop to all this, Orla supposed. Perhaps, his betrayal of Thorin may have even thwarted the war had Azog and his goblins not shown up. _Perhaps_. Yet, recently for Orla, 'perhaps' had ceased to be enough.

But then, _perhaps_ Bilbo was just as at fault as Thorin - the hobbit who was at the same time always on the fringes, yet managed to somehow stay in the center of all the destruction and misfortune that had befallen the company and all who came in contact with them. Was it not Bilbo who woke the dragon? Who tried to steal from the creature? Further still, the hobbit had proved himself a traitor twice over. He had cast Orla's weaknesses back in her face – she who had so fiercely defended him – and had likewise gone and betrayed the very king he was so devoted to, the king whom he had chosen over Orla.

And yet here he stood – completely well save for a wariness in his eyes and a slight tremble in his fingers. He had eyes that could still see, despite having blindly turned that very same gaze away from so much trouble. He had a tongue that could still speak, never mind his having spewed forth such cruel words. His body remained whole, yet so many others had been burned and destroyed so thoroughly nothing but bits and pieces remained.

It was not right and Orla's blood boiled because of it. Her eyes went dark and for the faintest of moments, she swore that it was the wolf who she saw through – the tangled web of greys and mottled colors. But…no. Back, far, far back into her mind she pushed that feeling, beating away the fury and the sudden desire to lash out.

_Not his fault,_ she reminded herself as she rested her face in the palms of her hands. The sudden calm pressed down on her so forcefully that she thought she might never raise herself from her knees. She would have been content not to in that moment – just stay and linger in a cool, distant daze. All the screams, all the anger and fear…for just a single moment, a miniscule fraction in time, Orla wanted nothing more than to be free of the _suffocating_ weight of it all. But the flood gates opened again with a simple worried hum from the hobbit and suddenly a raw and broken wail shook from Orla's belly and out her throat.

_It is not his fault_.

Bilbo was not broken, but he was not whole.

She tilted her bowed head to meet the hobbit's eyes. Uncertainty and the faintest glimmer of fear looked back at her. His fingers, gingerly touching her thin shoulder, were pressed so lightly against her that they might be pulled away at the slightest of movements.

Strange that the hobbit would fear her so when armies infinitely more terrible than she waged war not a mile in the distance. Things had gone so very wrong with Bilbo. Her fondness for him seemed a vague memory and the warmth she'd felt from his smiles and the clasp of his hand seemed as though it should have been foreign from the start. A month from now, when she closed her eyes in the dead of night, Orla had the very real suspicion that she would not be able to recall the details of his face. All she would be able to remember was sandy hair and eyes that looked upon her with such poorly concealed distrust.

Distrust.

It was so much better than pity. Orla had the urge then to take the hand on her shoulder in hers just to see if maybe there _was_ warmth there. Warmth that had been lacking in every touch and embrace she had felt since she had suffered. Maybe the halfling…

Tentatively, like touching a stranger, Orla placed one shaking hand atop Bilbo's. He did not pull away. No, the fear in his eyes slowly began to recede and the honey-brown irises warmed as they looked on her. The set of his mouth softened, too, as it lifted at the corners to smile sadly at her.

"Orla," he started. "I-I'm so terribly sorry."

The wolf-woman drew away with a flinch.

She stood and when she had righted herself, she found that she could hardly bring herself to look at him. But she had to! There were no others about to ask, no one else who might tell her…Violently quick, so suddenly that Bilbo was left to stumble back from her, Orla rounded on him and grasped his arms tight within her palms.

_Where are they? What is the plan? The plan? Where is everyone?_

She had to know. Too long had she been away from the circles of leadership, out of the proverbial loop. Would the dwarves defend Erebor first and foremost? Would they have joined their kin? Was Bard along the high walls of Dale? Where was Gandalf? She felt the sudden need to understand the battle and all its details, to memorize it, to know it all.

She had to _know_.

Perhaps there would be peace in knowing. If she knew Thorin was on the front lines, leading the first charge, the most likely to be cut down brutally, perhaps she might feel some sort of satisfaction. If she knew Gandalf was standing tall atop a hillside, raining down his formidable power on the enemy, perhaps there would be real, true reassurance. If she knew that Kili, sweet, precious Kili, was tucked amidst the ramparts of Erebor, firing arrow after arrow at the approaching horde, out of harm's immediate way, perhaps she could continue to cling so desperately to that last shred of _hope_.

But the hobbit did not understand. He gaped up at her, his eyes searching the awful, crazed grey for the slightest glimpse of the familiar. Yet, even had she been looking into a mirror, Ola could not know that as she looked down at the halfling nothing was expressed, nothing emoted, other than wild, frantic madness. Words failed her so pitifully – not even an option. Not even as she choked and gasped on and around them; they would not come. Not when she needed them, for once in her existence truly _needed_ them. They caught in her throat, at the back of her teeth, lost in the gaping, cavernous space of her empty mouth. She was mute now. It was so useless to try. Yet, never before had trying ever been useless. It had always been something for her, something she had done so easily. Now, try as she might those eyes of hers betrayed her. Her voice betrayed her. As did the traitorous slip of her fingers as they loosened from the hobbit long enough to allow him to twist away, his mouth agape in terror of her she could not understand.

"I'm sorry!" Bilbo sputtered as he fell away and Orla was struck with the odd, emptying feeling that he, more than any of the others, meant it. "I'm sorry! But I must go! T-they need me."

Just like that, the hobbit fled from her sight, his small form slipping out from the tent and leaving Orla alone and answerless, a yawning, unfillable chasm wrenching itself open within her where all her previous understanding of the world had been. She wished for tears; she willed the burn of waterworks to come forth and sting her eyes but there was no such luck. There was nothing. No ache of sadness at the hobbit's denial of her, no pang of remorse for apologies left unsaid between them.

Orla did not understand why but in her heart settled the knowledge that she and the little halfling from the Shire were finished. A friendship she could not fathom now was suddenly let go of, disappearing from her heart and her mind like a last breath on a cold day, there one moment and gone the next, leaving no sign that it had ever been there.

How peculiarly simple.

How very wrong.

Over the years, Orla had said goodbye to so many…a lost lover from her youth, her own son, another boy whom she would never see grow into a man. But they had all hurt. In varying degrees, they had left their marks on her. Goodbyes were supposed to be wrenching things; everything she had experienced prior had told her that they hurt, whether immediately or over time. They stayed with someone, always building on one another until finally, at least once, one got it right. One finally learned not to leave things unsaid, un-shown, so that there was no regret. But Orla did not think there would be regret for what had just transpired with the hobbit. There was no sharp sting from an emotionally-barbed knife to the heart.

Although, the Bear-Man's daughter supposed, there was nothing to be done for it. She had no more effort to waste. But she could try one last time, before she gave in to a truth she refused to believe, for the one that counted.

.

* * *

.

From the tent and the pitiful wretch hiding within, Bilbo fled and did not look back. Nearby, the first waves of the battle were meeting their end with sword and spear. The plan to draw most of the goblin army into the valley seemed to have worked for the time being. Up the embankments of the mountain and hills, the goblins and orcs were retreating, likely to regroup. Archers struck down many of them, fleets of dark arrows sailing out to pick at the horde's numbers. A novice at war though he was, Bilbo knew that this could not possibly be all there was to it. There had to be another attack, even as this first round fell at the feet of the elves and dwarves.

From the top of the hill, he looked to Erebor. Its massive gate remained impenetrably sealed and down below, through the many hundreds of soldiers, there was no way to tell if Thorin and the others had come out to lend their aid. The cries of war that ripped the air were so fierce in their pitch that Bilbo had no hope of identifying the stock from which they came.

To the west, there came a mighty bellowing and as he turned to look, Bilbo could not stop the drop of his jaw as his mouth fell open wide. The retreating goblins turned back all of a sudden, a massive black and red wave and, renewed in their vigor, they charged once more. It was not difficult to spot the cause, for behind them thundered at least two dozen great mountain trolls, armored in black-stained iron and carrying massive weapons of their own. Even over the distance, Bilbo saw as a handful of elves were swept up into the air when one troll batted its giant club. They fell with a noiseless crash amidst a sea of staggering soldiers and soon Bilbo forgot about them as he watched unbridled chaos descended on the allies.

From the back of the orcs' ranks swept the wargs, a hundred strong. They charged forward around the edges of the battle, their jaws grabbing at stragglers on the fringes before they threw themselves in earnest on the elves, men, and dwarves mid-way down the line. Too soon, the allied formations were forced to scatter. The Men fled to Dale, while the elves and dwarves alike were forced nearer and nearer to the stone walls of the Lonely Mountain. The valley, which had previously seemed a saving grace, spelled their doom now, as they were all but dead-ended with nowhere to retreat and enemy numbers funneling in all the while. Far away, hard to see save for the creature's glittering silver coat, Thranduil's mount was taken down and the figure atop it, whom Bilbo could only assume was the Elvenking himself, toppled to the ground as a large white warg leapt forward from the encroaching sea of goblins.

Whether Thranduil got to his feet, Bilbo could not tell, for the distance was too great and numbers swelled so that they drowned out the golden gleam of elven armor and the flash of silver from the dwarves. If this was the end, Bilbo figured, it was a very poor one. In his chest, his heart pounded so fiercely he thought it might burst.

Then, from behind, near the camp's gate, he heard a cry from one of the elves and an ensuing screech. Whirling about, his eyes torn from the battle ground below, Bilbo looked to see a small force of goblins surging forward toward the gates of the camp. The guards were only thirty strong, as Thranduil had been confident that Azog's troops would never make it so far. Still, thirty elves were a force to be reckoned with, and Bilbo dared hope that they might hold out. Gandalf, too, had remained in camp, the last Bilbo had seen him and the wizard would put a stop to all this goblin nonsense quickly. Or so the burglar hoped.

All about him, elves scrambled to push back the goblins' attack and the creatures fell by the tens until the archers had exhausted their quivers. Swords, gleaming and deadly in their beauty, were drawn and the sheaths thrown aside as the elves launched themselves toward the foe as the remaining goblins breached the gate.

Ducking behind a stack of wooden crates, Bilbo dodged a triplet of arrows just as they buried themselves in the space he had previously occupied. It really would not do at all to go getting stuck by any goblin weaponry so near the end of his adventure. As he tucked his head between his knees, he had a fleeting worry over the woman he had left to wallow in her tent. Orla was in no condition to fight – indeed, he wondered if she could even still manage that trick of hers. She was nowhere to be seen, not even as he peeked around the corner of one crate for a looksee at the skirmish. Orla _should_ have either tracked him down by now or have been well on her way to doing so, her fair head bobbing in between the warriors as she searched for her misplaced hobbit.

But Bilbo did not think there was much chance of that happening, not in this battle, not with the current state of things. No, Orla was probably hiding beneath that cot of hers or making for the far side of camp where the goblins had yet to reach. She had not looked as though she had wanted to fight when she had grabbed him so roughly and shook him until his teeth clacked in his skull. She had shaken him much the same as Thorin had when the dwarf-king had realized Bilbo's duplicity. Her eyes had been mad enough to rival Thorin's and one look from them had shaken Bilbo to his very core. Thorin's sickness came from greed and pride, and Orla's…well, Bilbo did not know from where it stemmed but it was a cold, terrible emptiness that had taken root there, an unreadable but starkly wild internalization of feelings that he certainly could not hope to comprehend. It had been as if the world as they knew it had gone out from under the both of them and both king and woman found themselves fighting to stay afloat at the most inopportune of times.

Without warning, a flash of light swept over the camp, engulfing tents and Bilbo's little boxes and everything in between in a brief, searing heat. There was an uproar from the goblins and the moment the blinding light had faded, Bilbo popped his head out from behind his cover to see the creatures trampling over one another to flee from the Grey Wizard who had appeared in their midst, his staff held high and from it a sun-like light receded back into the heart of the wood. Elves followed suit after the attackers, cutting them down before they could go too far and soon the camp was quiet once more.

The peace, relatively speaking of course, came not a moment too soon for Bilbo and the hobbit promptly got to his feet and brushed himself off. With a relieved grin, he gave Gandalf a small wave of appreciation. The wizard, however, did not return it – not with a smile, not with a nod of his head. He and a handful of elves only cocked their heads curiously and looked past Bilbo.

_How strange_ , thought the hobbit. Nothing could be behind him, surely, as the high wall of the Ravenhill outpost still stood stalwartly just over his shoulder. _What on earth then could they be looking at_? His thoughts, jumbled as they were, were interrupted by a sudden boom of a faraway war-horn. A deep, thunderous sound, the blast sounded over the many miles of valley and plain. It came from the mountain! With a whirl, Bilbo whipped about. Thorin!

_Oh, bless him to the Shire and back again, the stubborn oaf's finally come out from that cave of his!_

Given all that he had been through and the awful turns of luck that he had witnessed, in retrospect Bilbo supposed he really ought to have guessed what would come next. For no sooner had he given a whoop of delight than did the ground beneath his feet begin to shake. Pebbles and bits of earth began to vibrate around his toes and soon the _boom-boom-boom_ of something heavy approaching sent a telling rattle up his spine.

He did not hear Gandalf nor any of the others call for him to get out of the way. He did not hear much of anything at all outside of the sudden crash of wood and stone as a massive troll came barreling through the wall not ten feet from him. That was precisely how Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, burglar extraordinaire and connoisseur of all things gravely unlucky, was tossed back with a cry. The moment he hit the ground, his head cracked back on something hard and he knew no more.

.

* * *

.

It was a charge that would go down in the volumes of history, a charge that songs would be written to tell of, one that inspired so as to turn the tide of battle. When Thorin and his followers sounded the blaring trumpet of Erebor and came out from the mountain, screaming their dwarvish war cries and holding their weapons high, history would know that they would triumph that day.

The price for such a victory, however glorious, was to be a steep one.

Orcs and goblins cried out in their black tongue for aid as dwarven axes and the bows of elves and men began in earnest to cleave them in two. It was Azog and his warg who delivered that aid, and with him descended a black cloud of giant bats. Like a storm, the creatures rolled in on dark wings to pick off archers along the mountain ridge before diving into the midst of battle, crashing with their large bodies into the ground so as to crush those below, often at the cost of their own pitiful lives.

Of the five hundred dwarves Dain had brought with him, less than a third remained, and yet they _fought_.

Bezerkers, goaded by the horn of their ancestors, they tore indiscriminately into goblin, warg, and troll. At their helm raged Thorin and his kin. The dwarf-lord knew that the Defiler would come for him – the orc fresh and frenzied off the wound he had dealt the Elvenking and uncaring that the leader's injury had spurred elven forces to regroup at the goblin flank. When the white warg fell on the distracted heirs of Durin, it was Thorin who buried his sword in the creature's skull, cleaving until bone parted to reveal the sickly grey of brain. Pale jaws went slack around Fili's arm and shoulder and, finally, the gleam of life faded from the warg matriarch's eyes and the great beast tipped to the ground and quietly died.

Pulling his eldest nephew to his feet, Thorin spared neither look nor thought to the dead creature.

"Your arm?"

"I can fight," Fili answered with a nod. At his side, Kili appeared, the vicious gash of a claw swipe clear across his cheek.

"As can I," seconded the younger Durin.

And fight they would, until fate came to meet both bow and blade and, finally, cut them down.

.

* * *

.

She heard the horn of Erebor as it resounded over the raucous clangs of battle. She heard, too, the crash of a mountain troll barreling through the fortifying wall of Ravenhill.

There were many sounds, many cries for help, but Orla would stop for none of them.

From the healer's tent she had flown, her legs weak beneath her but holding as she moved amidst the uproar of the camp. To Gandalf's lodgings, she made her way, not to find the wizard, but to recover that which he had been guarding for her. As the troll wreaked havoc at the encampment's entrance, Orla hurried into the simple accommodations that had been set up for the Grey Wizard. The few sparse items of furniture inside were overturned in a flurry of movement as the wolf-woman searched. It was beneath the spartan cot that Orla found her belongings. Bard had turned them over to the wizard for safe-keeping the day Orla had been hurt. As she lay recovering, Gandalf had told her that he would watch the few things she had. Orla had not thought to need them again. Only in her dreams had she considered the weapons she had borne since Rivendell and more often than not, it was not goblins who fell victim to the dagger and bow in the lucid wonderings of her mind, but a more regal figure, dark of hair and heart.

Remaining on the floor was the most valuable of all her scant belongings – the mithril shirt Lord Elrond had bestowed on her. The cool slide of the priceless metal over her flesh was relished only momentarily before Orla had righted her clothes once again. Over her shoulder, Orla slung the bow and quiver. The elvish dagger was slipped into her boot. What she would do with them – _if_ she could even use them – she did not know.

Out of the tent she slipped, just in time to see the troll fall to the efforts of the elven guards. Not a single pair of eyes turned toward her as the elves reclaimed their positions, the post at the breached wall doubled, though not before Orla hurried out of it. From the corner of her eye, she swore she spied something small and crumpled, a little body sprawled out over the frosty grass, but she did not stop to get a better look.

Around the edges of the fray, she trailed and she had not made it far when her breath began to draw and shudder in her lungs. Her throat burned, unused to the stressed breathing and unable to keep up with the huff-puff of her body. Too shortly, Orla staggered to her knees. She could not breathe! Breathing was a natural thing but suddenly it became all too foreign as she sucked in the blood-drenched air, only to have it stick and fight her on the way down. Her leg still held, though, the gash from the white warg mostly healed. Her bruised and heaving sides ached as she knelt there on the ground, not ten yards from the outermost ring of soldiers.

Nearby, one dwarf cried out as a pair of orcs fell on him and as she gulped down another breath, Orla met his eyes – she watched as the light in them faded, a blade buried at the base of his neck. She was the last thing he had seen; her shuddering, huddled form nearly within reach. His hand had been outstretched and whether he had been reaching for her in his last moments, Orla never wished to know. But there she had been, watching uselessly on as his life was cut short, unable to offer him any comfort, her own eyes as clouded as his had been.

With a cry, she struggled to her feet. It was easier, she realized, if she did not give into the urge to open her mouth and drink in the air she so desperately yearned for. To do so would drown her, no tongue there to help swallow the breaths. Away from the goblins and the dying she ran, as if she meant to escape them. From somewhere nearby, she heard a bellowing roar and the ensuing squeal of orcs as they were torn apart. Amidst the sea of fighters, she spotted the enormous black form of her father, or rather the bear, as he battered the enemy.

Orla wavered a moment too long, taken in by the sight of the bear as he raged, and suddenly she was struck from behind. It was flat of her stomach that she landed as an awful screech tore through the air. Silent, she flipped over to see a huge bat above her, its wings beating to stir the earth around her downed form. Snow and dirt alike flew up into her eyes, leaving Orla to shut them tight against the intrusion. She could not reach the creature, not even if she stood. With no other option left to her, Orla shrugged the bow from over her head and fished for an arrow. She found one and just as the bat dove once more, she notched it and fired. If it hit the beast, she did not know, as she was on her feet and dashing away the moment the arrow was loosed.

Into the fray, she flung herself. Erebor was in sight, its grand doors open now. The dwarves had to be near. They could not have pushed too far into the fight, Orla knew, for she herself was having trouble enough. She dived and leapt, scrambling to her feet just in time to fall again as another ax or sword came swinging in her direction. Her lungs felt as though they might combust within her, just go up in flames and turn to ash. Likewise, her mouth seemed as though she had been sucking on cotton, it was so dry, and yet her throat felt so raw she was certain it must be bleeding. It would have been better for her just lie down and die, she suspected, just lay there until she was buried beneath a pile of bodies.

But she could not stop. A coward would have turned back and a smarter person would never have come, but Orla had tried as best she could, whether intentionally or not, to be neither of those things. There was one soul amidst all the turmoil around her who was worth protecting and that soul was not her own. She would find Kili and by the Mountain, she would keep that last _good_ thing safe if it was final thing she did in this life.

It was fate that she stumbled when she did, knocked to her belly a second time. And it was fate that she looked up at the precise moment she did, her hair a wild veil over her eyes so that she could just barely make out two familiar figures not thirty feet from her. It was three figures, truly, when the Pale Orc emerged from the throng of warriors. Allies and enemies alike scattered to avoid the arcing swings of Azog's mace. The two fighters for whom he was bound taunted him, their calls those of youthful foolishness, baiting when they should have been silent. It was not until her eyes met a second pair that Orla realized she was not the only one to look on as Azog faced down the house of Durin.

Thorin was braced upon his side in the muck, one arm slung over to cover his side. The royal blue of his armor's outermost tunic was stained a deep crimson. He bled like any other, the same as Orla had, just as red and just as profusely. His eyes were surprisingly calm when they found hers – they were not the eyes of someone able to make good on the last promise he had made her that day at the wall.

He needed to get up. He _had_ to get up. Orla willed him to do so. Why did he just lay there as his nephews fought his battle for him? Opening her mouth to scream at him, to demand that he get back on his feet, Orla was shocked into silence when she heard nothing but garbled syllables. In that moment, she cursed everything. Every fiber of her being shook so suddenly and so fiercely with anger at the prone dwarf that Orla would have sworn she might have been able to kill him with a single look.

_Get up! Get up, get up, get up getupgetup!_ With a shriek, the wolf-woman managed to raise herself onto her knees.

Nearby, Fili and Kili still took no quarter from the hulking orc, but they were outmatched. Time and again, they came at Azog, Fili ducking under an attack as his brother fired an arrow. Three of the barbed broadheads had thus far been embedded in Azog's body, two in his upper chest near his shoulder and one in his thigh. If Azog was phased by them at all, he gave not a single indication. Instead, he called out to the brothers of Durin by name and the breath Orla had been struggling to catch caught suddenly in her throat. Never had she wanted to hear that voice again; to hear it say Kili's name nearly caused her to scream. She did not need to understand the black speech to know that he meant to end the line of Durin that day. The malice in his voice was palpable and at his words the troops around him scattered to make way for the cleaving, circling swings of his weapons.

Thorin had finally started to move upon hearing the Defiler's words. Never had the King under the Mountain been one to show his pain, but as he struggled to climb onto his knees, Orla read the feeling in every line of his face and each twitch of his muscles. She recognized it because she _knew_ it. Like the back of her hand, she had learned the feeling. She hoped that Thorin felt it tenfold. She wished that it would cripple him, bend him, and break him – but only after he took his nephews' places in their current fight.

Fili flew at the white orc, his axes brandished in either hand. The eldest brother slid low just as Azog reached for him but Orla had no opportunity to see if the dwarf's strike fell, for she was soon yanked up by the curls of her hair. Enraged, she snarled and jerked away, only to be hauled back by the hissing goblin who held her. Something pinched and bit at her back near her kidney and with a glance down she spotted a black blade trying to work its way through her shirt. The mithril held as it was meant to do, and try as he might, the goblin could make no wound against her. She could not reach her boot for the dagger, nor the arrows at her back. Instead, she launched all her weight against the fiend. They were of equal size and when she crashed against him, she drove the creature down. In the moment of respite from the fall, her hands scrabbled for the elvish knife and, drawing it up, she plunged it into the soft flesh beneath the goblin's jaw.

Behind her, she heard a shout and by the time she had turned, she saw that Azog had Fili within his grasp, the orc's white, wormy fingers wrapped tight around his throat. Kili, though, she could not find. Where had he gone? Frantic, Orla clambered to her feet, her eyes searching. There was too much movement around her for even her keen eyes to spot a single dwarf amongst the hordes of combatants. There was nothing to do other than sprint across the short distance between where she stood and where Azog was currently squeezing the life from Fili. Around orc and elf alike, Orla flew.

But she was not quick enough.

Fifteen short feet kept her from Azog, or else she would have cast herself on him with all the fury she felt.

But it was not to be.

It was Kili who appeared from behind the Pale Orc and it was he who cried out as his elder brother was dropped to the ground with a flick of Azog's wrist, his head hanging askew, crooked and _wrong_. Kili could not have stopped himself in time, not after he had leapt, his sword drawn back. Azog, however, did not need the time required to raise that heavy mace of his. If he had, Kili perhaps might have been spared.

But fate was cruel and the young were often foolish.

With a primal cry of denial, Orla watched as the worst came to pass.

The Defiler's missing appendage had been outfitted with a cruel blade and it was that very blade that met Kili as he descended on the orc, meeting the young dwarf at the belly and ripping out the other side of him. Kili's own sword, the same one that had been raised aloft moments earlier, fell from his hand as his fingers suddenly went slack. The bulging muscles of Azog's shoulder shuddered as he hoisted the dwarf up and _twisted_.

And just as suddenly as it had happened, the one thing in all the world that was left to protect was flung limply to the ground to die.

The world stopped spinning – Orla would have sworn it did had she been able to think. But she could not think, could not breathe, blink, or cry…she could only watch as Thorin Oakenshield chose that moment to strike.

While Azog basked for the briefest of moments, Thorin found strength enough to stand and then he threw himself at the Defiler, Orcrist in hand. With a roar, the dwarf-king caught the Pale Orc around the stomach and battled him down. Azog's blue eyes went wide at the biting puncture from Thorin's blade at his middle. Atop the orc, the last and eldest of the Durins laid the monster open. Orcrist was drawn up from Azog's stomach to his chest. Through bone and muscle alike, Thorin wrenched his sword until it finally lodged just below Azog's throat and the Defiler lay still forevermore.

.

* * *

.

Black blood, hot and wet, spurted out to coat Thorin's front. He paid it no notice. His own breath, even as it heaved within his chest, came and went without a thought, for at his back, the most awful sound he had ever heard rose up to rend the air, breaking over the sounds of battle and shattering as if to hang over his head alone. He did not have to turn to know it was the woman. He had spotted her a few minutes earlier, lying on her belly in icy dirt and glaring at him with such violent hatred that what scant blood was left in his veins had gone cold. Even now, blood pulsed and ebbed from the wound at his side but Thorin found he had no desire to stave off its flow.

It may have seemed that he was too exhausted to turn around but the truth was that Thorin Oakenshield was simply too afraid. He knew what sight awaited him just over his shoulder. He had watched as Fili's neck had been snapped, seeming as fragile as a child in a crib, the young dwarf no more able to withstand Azog's punishment than Thorin himself. And Kili…brave and inexperienced to the end. But the both of them had been fierce, so admirably and heart-breakingly fierce. They had fought until Thorin would have sworn neither should have been able to lift their weapons. Even after he had been struck down, _they_ had pressed on, they had defended their king, their _family,_ to the last.

Thorin could have been no prouder had they been his own sons and that was what made it seem such a bitter waste.

How had it come to this, he pondered. He knew the answer; there on the battlefield it was easy to find. He had not been as strong as he had believed himself to be. He had thought himself too great – the prophesized king of old – to fall victim to the madness of the golden hoard. By the time he had clawed his way back to sanity, it was too late. Far, far too late.

Thorin slipped off of the Defiler's lifeless body, half-crawling to his knees as he turned finally to the sight behind him. Within the woman's arms lay Kili, his dark head cradled at her chest as she sobbed over him, her hands clenching around his body as she rocked him, uncaring of the swords that swung not three feet from her head. The boy was not yet dead, but he was far enough gone that the pain had faded away. It would not be long.

One of Kili's hands was clinched around Fili's wrist and it twisted Thorin's heart to know that he would find no pulse there. The princeling's other hand had gone up to the Beorning's cheek and try as he might in his dying moments to coax her, Orla staunchly refused to look at him. She keened once more and Thorin continued to watch on as her fair face turned away and tucked into Kili's palm.

As to why he had ever believed her a user of men, Thorin had no answer; indeed, he could not pinpoint the exact occurrence which had driven him against her so staunchly. The two of them had had an accordance in Lake Town and the moment when they had shaken hands, Thorin recalled being certain that Orla would keep her word once Erebor was reclaimed. Never had he been fond of Kili's infatuation with her – he had not wanted to see his nephew hurt – but though the flirtations had grated on him, there suddenly seemed no reason for which to despise her as he had. Her fondness for defending those he berated had infuriated him in the moment; it seemed such a trivial thing now. Certainly, it had been in madness that he had turned against so many things and had harmed those who had not deserved it. Bilbo was one such innocent. Orla was the other.

Thorin looked on as Kili spoke to her, his voice a shuddering imitation of what it should have been. He begged her to look at him and for the first time since coming to his side, Orla did so.

"Miss you," said Kili quietly and Thorin cast his eyes away at the words. It was a brutal thing, watching the last few moments of life fade from his flesh and blood, and the wounded king had no wish to witness the end.

The Beorning did not reply. Instead, she pulled Kili closer and whimpered through another wracking sob.

"Wasn't 'sposed to end like this, y'know. Would've been grand if it hadn't." A cough broke through him, the rattle of a dying man.

"Look at me, won't you? O-Orla? Know you've never been one to talk but…I need…just one last…last time t'hear…" Kili was pleading now, his voice growing ever weaker and Thorin had to squeeze shut his eyes to keep from imagining the light in Kili's own dimming away with every word.

Never had Thorin believed Orla a cruel woman, not once, no matter how she vexed him. Why then she chose now of all times to become such, he could not fathom. The oddity of it took him by surprise, even as his eyes, heavy though they were growing, widened in confusion at her denial of the one she held so dearly.

"Orla, love...ah," Kili's words drew short and he winced within her grasp, "Orla?"

But she did not answer him. Not in his dying breath. She did not say the words he needed so desperately to hear, would not grant him the one thing that would ease him, his last wish in this life.

Thorin watched her break. It could have been no more obvious had she been a glass figurine dropped atop a floor. She shattered as Kili, that last bit of brightness she had, gave up and faded away in her arms, and there came a weak tremor from her shoulders and then stillness, as the final bit of spirit within her slipped away and suddenly left her bare. It was her silence that had finally killed the boy; a finite of rejection that Thorin understood no dying man could possibly stand.

As he slumped to his side, suddenly weak, Thorin wondered idly if Kili had felt his injury at all, if the hole that had been torn inside him burned as his own did, or if perhaps it was his heart that finally stuttered to a stop, too fractured to beat again. It was not an ending Kili had deserved. He lay with Fili now – Thorin managed to look blearily up and see them, side by side, still and cold and no longer bothered by the battle around them. Odd that he had not seen Orla release his nephew's body, half thinking that she might never turn him loose. Now, at least, the brothers might walk together in the halls which Mahal had prepared for them, a place where neither woman nor war would concern them. Thorin suspected he would follow them shortly. The thought did not frighten him. He had done enough in this life. Erebor was reclaimed.

Letting his head drop to the ground, Thorin could not help but smile wearily. _Let the treasure within that place trouble a stronger man._

He only wished now that he might say goodbye to Master Baggins, that poor, abused scoundrel who Thorin loved as dearly as any of his dwarves. There were few regrets that he could think of as the life slowly drained out of him, but Bilbo was the foremost in his mind. The hobbit had been the one who had _seen_ when Thorin had become too blind to look in at himself. He had been the friend Thorin needed, not the minion he had thought he wanted.

Like so many things now, it was too late for that. The sounds of war were growing distant as Thorin let his eyes slip closed. He drew in a breath and sighed and all at once he accepted his failures. Braver men would right his wrongs and Thorin wished that they might never see his like again.

The cold of the late November wind ceased its biting suddenly and for a moment, Thorin found himself puzzled as to why. He wanted it back, desired that chill to numb him and coax away the life that was left. But a moment later, a weight settled around him, falling at his hips and pinning him down as though he was yet physically able to get up. The eyes that had so peacefully closed fluttered open again and were met with nothing but empty, dead grey. What he had expected from the woman, Thorin was not sure. But it was certainly not that she would kill him. His death approached, he had understood that from the moment the rush of battle left him as he killed Azog. Yet, even as he slumped to the ground, he would never have suspected that it would be the wolf-woman who finished him off.

If he had the strength to weep for her, he would have gladly done so. She did not understand what doing such a thing would mean, not in the way he did. She would not realize it, perhaps not ever, that to end him would be to end herself, and Thorin had never wanted that for one such as her.

She sat atop him and despite her negligible weight, the dwarf could not have moved her if he tried.

Weak as he was, Thorin could not do much else other than flinch beneath her.

"Orla –"

A brief sting of something cold at his throat gave him cause to glance down and the glint of a silver, ash-handled dagger reflected in the light of day. There was no threat from the little knife. The threat was in her eyes. Countless times in his life, Thorin had faced those who meant to kill him. Highwaymen, thugs, orc-filth – it did not matter. The want for death brought a look to the eye that was all too well-known to Thorin. Without fail, it was a look bereft of remorse, backlighted sometimes by glee and at other times terror. Markedly, Thorin saw neither in her gaze. Something else, something entirely different had set her eyes ablaze. No one had ever tried to kill him out of hatred before.

And then all of a sudden, the dagger was gone from his neck. It was cast carelessly away and Thorin heard it land with a quiet thud a foot or so to his right. It was within reach. He could take it up and bury it between her ribs, could stop her – not from killing him, no, he was already dead, but from falling into a darkness of which she would never be free.

He hesitated too long, however, and not a moment later, Orla's hands were around his throat. She gripped him so tightly that a very mortal part of him feared she might crush his windpipe outright. He was not afraid of death, but that did not stop him from bringing his hands to hers to try and tear the smaller digits from around his throat. He gasped her name but all the breath had left him, his words nothing more than a whisper.

And then, just as suddenly as she had attacked him, it was over. Those eyes of her met his and what she saw, Thorin knew not, but she stilled so quickly he half-expected to see a wayward blade burst through her chest. It was not so and with a cry, Orla launched herself off of him and the dwarf drew in a ragged breath. From the corner of his eye, too tired to turn his head, Thorin saw as Orla curled in on herself and _wept_. She shuddered and she trembled and he could not hear the battle for her screams. Unable to stand the sound, wishing more than anything for the wild clash of swords to tear at his ears and deafen him, he called to her and though he had not expected her to, she looked up.

Through red, weeping eyes, the young woman met his gaze and she did not balk beneath it, she did not turn away or flee. With a quiver, she swallowed back a new wave of sobs and shifted onto her knees. She shrugged out of the patchwork coat she wore and no sooner had Thorin turned away, content to finally be granted some peace, he felt her at his side. She did not move this time to throttle him, rather she pressed the sorry ball of fabric in her hands to the drenched wound at his side.

He did not look at her while she worked, his eyes cast up to the grey sky instead. He thought certain that he was imagining things when he noticed the first golden eagle as it circled over him. Dozens more seemed to follow the first, their giant wings blocking out the dull blue of the world above.

"The eagles have come," he murmured, though Orla did not respond. Dazed, he found her eyes again and suddenly, the eagles did not seem quite as important.

Through the ruddiness and the dark of her irises, Thorin read only one thing.

_I could not save him._

"Kili's blood is not on your hands," sharply he drew in a breath as the wound between his ribs gave a sudden twinge.

Her eyes narrowed and the pressure atop the wound grew. _It is on yours._

"I…yes. His, among many others."

Nearby, not half a foot from the woman's head, an arrow ripped by. If she noted how close she had come to death, she did not seem to mind. But then neither did Thorin; he had never thought to die alone. He had expected his death to come beside his brothers-in-arms, hearing Dwalin and Balin bellowing in his ears as the life went from him. To die beside Orla though, would be a quiet, unremarkable death. The sky began to darken and the dwarf-king had to clench his teeth to fight back the light-headedness that threatened to overtake him then. Maybe it was not the sky that was growing dark, for when her looked back to Orla, he found her blurred in muted shades of color.

"Tell me…the hobbit, does he yet live?"

Orla shrugged and if she knew the answer, she did not see fit to comfort him with it. From somewhere close by, an animal roared. Beorn had been about, Thorin had glimpsed him earlier, though the recollection seemed distant now. At his side, Orla drew back and looked around. She did not look in the direction where Kili lay, he noticed, she looked anywhere but there.

When she turned her eyes back to him, it occurred to Thorin that it might well be the last time. He was glad that she had not killed him. So many had been lost; she need not through herself away. She took a deep breath and in her eyes he saw her heart. There was loathing there still, simmering now, and yet a profound sadness lingered there as well, muddying the vengeance. Above all else, shown a promise gone unspoken. Stark and startling, it reflected back at him and chilled him to the bone. Whether it was an oath of future retribution or of something else, Thorin did not know. There did not seem to feel as though there was much future left in him.

_I shall find you one day, Thorin Oakenshield._ That was what she would leave him with, then. His last exchange was to be a fitting one. _If you survive this day, we will meet again._

She stood then and was only stilled when Thorin called to her. She glanced down to where he lay and for the briefest of seconds, something akin to regret sparked behind her eyes.

"I was wrong," he spoke quietly, "Silence does not befit you." He drew a sharp breath and when he reopened his eyes, he found that he could hardly see, "I am sorry. I wish you had never come to us. I wish our paths had never crossed…so that you might be the woman you were, that this world might know that goodness still."

But Orla only continued to look at him and in her gaze the regret was gone and there was no forgiveness, only fading light and a glimpse of boundless, _infinite_ loathing. With nothing more than an acknowledging nod, the Bear-Man's daughter turned from all that lay behind – the dying king, her dead lover, her father, all those she had known, and she walked into the grey light of day.


	33. Epilogue

The arrival of Gwaihir's eagles saw the Battle of the Five Armies draw to a victorious close. Thousands lay dead and amongst them was Azog and the majority his commanders. Without the Pale Orc's leadership, the dark forces were left rudderless and fractured and were beaten back by the rallied forces of elves, men, and the dwarves who yet remained. King Thranduil, no worse for the wear after the white warg's attack save for his wounded pride, saw that multiple contingents of his elves followed and cut down the retreating horde where they could. Likewise, Dain Ironfoot gathered what was left of his forces and dutifully posted them at the gates of Erebor, though not before bestowing Gwaihir with a crown of gold and diamonds and seeing that a lasting alliance was formed between their peoples.

It was Beorn who carried the King under the Mountain from the battlefield, much to the Elvenking's vexation, and the last surviving leader of the Durin line was made comfortable long enough for goodbyes to be said. Bilbo Baggins had no wish to say goodbye to Thorin but the obstinate dwarf went about it anyway and by the end of it all, Bilbo was weeping by his bedside when Thorin Oakenshield's eyes finally fell closed.

With Dale still standing and the survivors within its walls more or less unharmed, Bard the Bowman found himself within what was left of the Ravenhill encampment. His archers had lost many of their numbers to the bats of Dol Goldur but those who remained hailed him as king and savior – a man whom they would serve faithfully 'til the end of their days. Aside from his children, and though he would not admit it, the first person who he wished to lay eyes on, if only to confirm her safety, was Orla; after arriving in Thranduil's camp and finding half of it destroyed, however, Bard could find no sign of the woman. Beorn's wrath that night very nearly began another crisis, particularly when the Grey Wizard spoke up and noted that Orla's belongings had been claimed from their place of safe-keeping. In the days that passed, it did not go unnoticed that of all those unaccounted for, the one for whom the bargeman searched most earnestly was Orla. But scour the battle field as they might, not a soul turned up hide nor hair of the mute Beorning.

Orla had seemingly disappeared and anyone who might have told them otherwise was either too dead or too out of sorts to say so.

Though it was laborious work, the first week saw all the bodies of the fallen restored to their respective peoples and given proper rites. Fili and Kili were laid to rest deep within the mountain in tombs beside those of their ancestors. Their young heads were crowned with silver, mementos to the leaders they might have become had they not given their lives in defense of their king. When all services to the dead had been paid, by Dain's order Thranduil was given the white jewels he had so dearly coveted since the day he had lost them to Thror. Fairer still, that which equated to a fourteenth share of all the treasure of Erebor was given to Bard and with it, he spread the wealth among his people so that they might rebuild within a new and better city.

Bilbo, in the end, took with him only two chests of treasure back to the Shire. It was more than enough, he supposed, for after all, he had earned himself a wealth of friends and quite enough adventure for a lifetime. Of the ten remaining dwarves, not a one was glad to see the halfling go and Bilbo secured from each of them the promise that should they ever find themselves near the Shire, they would at least stop by for tea, which was, he respectfully reminded them, at four o'clock sharp.

With no sign of his daughter, Beorn left to return to his lands not a week after the battle's close. His trip was not made alone and when he went, the hobbit and Gandalf traveled with him. The way back was not an easy one but Bilbo never found himself in grave danger again while the wizard and the skin-changer were at his side. The pair parted ways with Beorn at the edge of his lands, though not before a chestnut-haired boy came bounding out of the house to great them. Youthful eyes of a merry grey saw them off with a smile and a fascinated wave and Bilbo found himself hoping that life for Grimbeorn would not be as trying as it had been for his mother. For what it was worth, Bilbo wished that the boy's cheer never faded and that in his heart and mind, he would maintain all his life that which his mother had lost.

Before long, they had found themselves in Rivendell and shortly thereafter at the edges of the Shire. There, Gandalf bid him farewell, though Bilbo was quite of the mind that it would not be forever, and when he told Gandalf as much, the wizard had only smiled, tipped his hat, and ambled away. The Shire, Bilbo found, was very much the same as he had left it. It was he who was different now and not a single day passed that his neighbors ever let him forget it. Still, the tea was as fragrant as he remembered it and the berry cream cakes just as sweet. All was green and warm and _good_.

As for the Bear-Man's daughter, Bilbo caught himself thinking of her on occasion – where she was or if she even still lived, though he had very little doubt that she did. He heard not a single whisper of her, however, until some years later when two very unexpected visitors appeared on his doorstep. He had been right when he'd supposed Gandalf would turn up again sooner or later, though the second face at the door surprised him into near hysteria, as it was that of a dwarf he had not ever expected to see again.

They meant only to visit him for tea, which meant in turn that they stayed for two or three days, and naturally the conversation turned to recollections of adventures and regaling Bilbo with all the news he had missed while tucked away in his hobbit hole.

It had come to be whispered in the eastern part of the world, as Bilbo was told by his dwarven guest, that the newly crowned Bard, King of Dale, had recently taken on an unacknowledged consort after the restoration of his city. She was a rare sight and never, not once, did she speak in presence of others. Some people of the city spoke in hushed whispers that the newcomer was a cold woman, whose manner was softened only by the lord she served. Others claimed such was not the case, that on the off chance one found themselves in her presence, she was as warm as a summer's morning. Regardless of her nature, her sudden and unacknowledged appearance in the house of Dale gave many cause to fear ill-effect on the King, though thus far he had not seemed at all swayed for the worse in either his policies or his dealings.

Gandalf, however, assured Bilbo that such rumors were false and that there was no reason at all to lose any sleep over them. Quiet and simple as the Shire was, especially for one who had had such a grand adventure, Bilbo found himself eager to indulge rumors on just this one occasion and, after many a glare and grumble from his dwarven guest, he had asked the wizard how, precisely, he could know such a thing. At which point, Gandalf had promptly told him that no matter how much magic was in the world, a person could not be in more than one place at a time and that if Bilbo truly wished an answer to his question, he just might take a stroll down by the banks of the Withywindle. What that meant, Bilbo hadn't the foggiest, and he contentedly let the subject go.

And like that, life went on and for a long time it was perfectly simple and comfortable for Bilbo Baggins of the Shire and for the rest of his days, he was most content to believe in happy endings, no matter what the truth happened to be.

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been fun, ladies and gents. I hope you've enjoyed the ride. I'll be posting a series of "what-if's" regarding Orla and various characters (ahem Thorin & Bard) entitled "Yearning, Evermore." They will be rated Mature and as your surrogate mother-hen, I insist that you not read it unless you are over seventeen (or preferably thirty-two). They will be lengthy, standalone one-shots under that title. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! This story has gone farther than I ever thought it would and you're all the sole reason I stuck it out.
> 
> Best to all of you,
> 
> Sara


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